


Fix You

by Princess_Aleera



Series: Play a Game [2]
Category: Saw (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arc Reactor Angst, Crossover, Eventual Fluff, Everyone Needs A Hug, Graphic Description, Hurt Tony, M/M, Minor Character Death, Needles, Poor Tony, Protective Clint Barton, Things Get Better, Torture, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Hello, Tony. I want to play a game."</i>
</p><p>Tony is taken by the Jigsaw Killer and forced to endure five grueling tasks - each of them representing one of his teammates. The same teammates who, on Jigsaw's orders, are forced to watch every second of Tony's torture on a set of monitors.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Hello, Avengers. Today, you are not here to save anyone. You are here to help with the clean-up, for once in your life."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuthorInDistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorInDistress/gifts).



> This was not written for the WIP BigBang on Livejournal, but it's probably finished because of it. The purpose of the Bang was for people to Finish Their Shit, and I did! I actually did. For that, I owe the comm and the mods so many thanks, as this has been in the making for over a year.
> 
> I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Grasshopr_Molly, for going through this entire monster of a fic and pointing out both misspellings, Britishisms, and plot holes for me. I'd also like to thank my artist, MusicalLuna, so much for creating such _gorgeous_ artwork for me. Go check it out! IT HAS CUDDLES.
> 
> Lastly, and most importantly, I need to thank the person who inspired all this madness in the first place. FrostIronOTP posted a prompt on the avengerskinkmeme over a year ago, one that latched onto my brain immediately and started festering there. Unbeknownst to me, RL was about to throw a whole bunch of stuff in my way, but FrostIron, you've remained such a cheerleader about it all throughout, and I can't thank you enough for the messages you've sent me wondering not about the story, but how I was doing. I hope this story is everything you've been hoping for, and I hope that goes for all the other nonnies on the meme too, who've been asking about this story for a year. You're all super sweet. <3
> 
> ~
> 
> This story contains quite a few triggers, and since I don't want to spoil more than the tags give away, I've chosen to mention them only in my end notes. The main triggers are graphic depictions of violence and torture, minor character deaths (OCs), PTSD and aftermath, and serious injury/illness. Head over there if you think you need to. :)

Steve's in the kitchen, watching popcorn pop in their state-of-the-art microwave with a childlike smile on his face. Bruce is down in his lab, as usual, and Clint doesn't know where Thor is at the moment. He heads over to the fridge and rummages through Tony's drawer, looking for the blueberries. Tony loves those goddamn berries.

“Movie night?” Steve asks when they both walk into the living room. Natasha is sprawled on the floor, on the thick, soft carpet that covers most of the living room floor. Tony's curled up in a corner of the couch, looking half-asleep. Clint knows he hasn't eaten since lunch, but Tony had claimed not to be hungry, so Clint's hoping something familiar will make him force something down. Tony is still so thin.

Tony glances up at Steve's voice, looking relatively relaxed under his blanket. There's been a lot of movie nights lately.

“Nah,” Clint says and dumps down next to his – something. He's just downloaded the new Lara Croft game on Tony's X-Box, and Clint's itching to try it out. Lara's using a _goddamn bow_. It's gotta be awesome. “I wanna play a game,” Clint says.

The effect is instantaneous, and Clint realizes his mistake the moment the words pass his lips. Natasha's shoulders tighten, Steve's eyes widen, and Tony – Tony goes absolutely fucking _rigid_ next to him.

“ _No_ ,” Clint says and turns to Tony, grabbing him gently by the arm, even though he knows the damage is already done. “No, Tony, I did _not_ mean that.”

It's too late. Tony's frozen beside him, eyes glazed over, face paling as he begins to tremble finely. He sucks in a breath, and doesn't let it back out.

“Fuck, fuck, I didn't,” Clint babbles, even though Nat and Steve _know_ ; they all try not to trigger Tony, but sometimes it just _happens_ , and - “Tony. Tony, c'mon. Please look at me. Hit me, I said a shitty thing, c'mon, lay it on me.” He puts a hand on Tony's cheek, and Tony's eyes don't even flicker. He's completely gone and they have no way of telling how long it'll last – or how he's going to react when he comes back out of his head. They never know.

“Clint, you didn't mean it,” Steve says softly and puts a hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint didn't realize he's also trembling, guilt sour on his tongue, like vomit. “Tony?” Steve asks and kneels in front of them.

Tony's eyes are empty, and so far away. _This is the worst part_ , Clint thinks as he lets his hand fall. Not the injuries or the illness or the scars; not even the worst ones. Not the way Tony flinches every time his arc reactor is visible, or touched, or even mentioned. Not the way he sometimes panics, gets anxiety attacks – or even wakes Clint up in the night time, sobbing softly into his pillow and trying to hide the sounds from him.

No. The worst is this; this _nothingness_. There's nothing _left_ in there when he's like this; no Tony Stark, no Iron Man, no nothing. Just an empty shell. Like Clint, when he was under Loki's thrall. And every time it happens, Clint thinks _this. This is the time he won't come back. When he'll stay gone._

“Breathe, Clint,” Natasha says next to him, and puts a hand on Tony's neck. Steve's hands are on Tony's knees, and Clint is pressed against the genius's side. The contact helps, sometimes. Makes it easier for Tony when he returns to the now; reminds him that he's not there anymore, that he made it out.

The three of them wait, staring at Tony's slack face and dull, brown eyes. They just wait.


	2. I Want to Play a Game

Sure, Tony's sentient espresso machine makes world-class coffee, and Tony will probably have to sweet-talk it into staying in the Avengers Tower after having cheated on it today, but the thing is? There's this tiny café on 22nd street that serves breakfast and smoothies all day every day, and Tony doesn't know how they do it, but they make better coffee than his machine. Which shouldn't even be _possible_.

But such is his hard life, and Tony's had a good eight hours of sleep curled around Clint and managed to sneak out without waking his boyfriend, so he deserves a treat. Double-shot espresso with cinnamon and cream. Fuck yes.

“Mister Stark!” Gang Li, the owner, looks up when he enters, a wide grin splitting his face. “Great morning, yeah?” He vaguely reminds Tony of Santa Claus, without the beard. And the suit. And the Christmas.

“Wouldn't know, Gang Li,” Tony says, grinning right back at him, pulling off his sun glasses. There are only a couple of regulars lounging in the rickety plastic chairs scattered around the tiny café, but it's still early. Most of the morning rush should be in an hour's time, seven-thirty and onwards. Tony's not feeling particularly crowd-friendly this early, but Gang Li starts making his usual coffee without prompting and Tony feels himself take a deep breath. This place always smells like fried eggs and bacon, coffee and citrus. It's... nice.

“I mourn the fact that you guys don't deliver,” Tony groans when he gets his paper cup in hand, pulling his card before he pulls a sip. Ugh. Best coffee in the world. He's tried bribing the secret out of Gang Li, but the guy loves this place and Tony can't begrudge him too much. One day, though. One day he'll pry it out of him and buy the whole café.

“If we did, I'd never get to see you,” Gang Li says and smirks.

“You charm me, seriously,” Tony says and gulps down some more of his heavenly beverage. “I'm this far from leaving my boyfriend so I can pursue you.”

“You know we're both kept men, Mister Stark,” Gang Li says through a low laughter.

“There is nothing 'kept' about me, I'll tell you,” Tony snipes, but doesn't bother to hide his smile.

“Say hi to Mister Barton for me, Mister Stark!” Gang Li waves when he leaves, and Tony raises his coffee in acknowledgment and thanks.

Gang Li is right, though; it's a great morning. The sky is clear and the air has that crisp quality of late autumn. Tony's already told Happy to drive home. He feels like walking; always does when the weather is as great as it is now and he's gotten some coffee. He's enough of a regular in this area that not many people stop and stare, and Tony lets his eyes follow the few people he encounters on his way home. It's a good day.

The grip on his shoulder is as painfully tight as it is sudden; dragging Tony out of the street and into an adjoining ally. He twists around and tries to punch; it's blocked and he gets clocked in the jaw for his trouble. There's a dark-blue sedan parked further in the alley, and the person holding onto Tony is... wearing a fucking pig mask.

Tony doesn't have time to shout, to fight back, before the needle's embedded in the side of his throat and the world tilts.

~*~

“Tony?” Clint barks when they slam the door open, him and Tasha with their guns ready. Cap's got his shield and Thor his hammer. Bruce is still Bruce, at least for now, and Phil has their backs.

They've been led to this seemingly abandoned warehouse in New Jersey by JARVIS, who had notified them when Tony didn't return from his morning walk. According to the AI, his phone is still here somewhere – and hopefully, Tony is too. Even if Phil's equipment can't pick up any other traces of life in here.

Clint is really fucking tired of people kidnapping his boyfriend.

The room they're in is small and dark; not a window in sight, and no light either. Phil's got a flash light and swipes it across the floor. Dust swirls in the ray of light and the air is musty. On the other side of the room Clint can see a series of monitors, all seemingly sleeping. Then Phil's flash light finds something on the floor that reflects the light – the phone.

Clint moves forward quickly, not lowering his gun. He knows before he reaches the StarkPhone, of course – there's no Tony here anymore. The phone is on, and there's a recorded audio message on it. The file name is _HelloAvengers.mp3._

“The fuck?” Clint says, to himself as much as the rest of the team.

Coulson's face tightens when he sees the message, and while the rest of the team sweep across the rest of the room and the hallway outside, Clint steps closer to his handler.

“What is it?” Clint says, because Coulson's got that one look, and Clint fucking _hates_ that look, because it never means anything good.

Phil takes the phone from Clint, but doesn't answer. Instead he turns towards the monitors, and flips them all on. They blink to life, one by one, and Coulson lets out a long, sharp exhale. “I told Fury not to get him involved,” the handler mutters under his breath.

“What?” Clint walks over to the monitors, Natasha and Bruce behind him, Steve and Thor still searching.

“The Jigsaw Killer,” Coulson says tightly, and points at the left-most screen.

Clint's stomach jolts in pain when he sees Tony, and hears the terribly familiar voice from the monitor's speakers.

_“Hello, Tony.”_

~*~

Tony's head is fuzzy when he wakes, in stages, and his initial thought is that he got way too drunk last night. But then the gears in his head start turning for real, and he realizes he can't remember _what_ he did last night – or how long ago that was. _Fuck_ , he thinks, recognizing the effects as well as the cotton-like quality of his tongue.

He blinks his eyes open. His vision seems to be swimming at first, the harsh light reflecting oddly in front of him. Tony realizes a number of things at once.

1\. He's lying on the floor of what looks to be a dirty, old bathroom. There's a bath tub in a corner, and a door on the other side. There's a shattered mirror a few feet away, and shards of glass on the floor. He's never been here before, but he recognizes the outline.  
2\. He's alone.  
3\. He's also chained to the wall by huge, clunky, old-fashioned iron shackles on his wrists, ankles, and around his throat. He's got some room to move, but not much – not enough to get over to the tub, or the door.  
4\. There seems to be some kind of glass box around his head, with one red and one green tube leading out of it. There's also a thin white string attached. Both tubes and the string lead to the bare wall behind him, disappearing into a small, drilled hole. It's difficult to breathe, but not impossible. His breath fogs up the glass.  
5\. There's an old-fashioned tape recorder by his feet.

(Never mind that his own past life-threatening situation completely changed his morals.)

Jigsaw. This whole set-up stinks of him. Which means that Tony is utterly and completely _fucked_.

He grabs the tape recorder, the movement jostling the chains. All the cuffs are connected to one continuous chain; the more he moves his arms away, the more pressure he puts on his throat and his ankles. Simple and effective. Tony doesn't know what the box around his head is for, but he suspects he'll find out soon enough.

_Play me_ , a note on the recorder says, and Tony swallows. Takes a few deep breaths. The others have probably noticed that he's gone already; they're searching. Yeah. They'll come find him in no time. _Lies, lies._

Tony presses play.

_“Hello, Tony,”_ a distorted, deep voice says. _“I want to play a game.”_ Oh yeah. That's Jigsaw alright. Tony's stomach roils. _“You are known to the world under a number of different names; The Merchant of Death, Iron Man, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist. Yet behind your metal armor and all your money, you are a child, still clinging to his father's inventions and beliefs. For all the people you surround yourself with, your closest friend is still the bottle.”_

Tony already wants to punch this guy in the face. Seriously. Fuck him.

_“Time and time again your overblown ego has endangered missions, yourself, and your team members. You like to go your own way, regardless of orders given – you believe that your instincts are always right.”_

“Fuck you,” Tony says out loud, his voice muffled through the box.

_“Your fellow soldiers are watching as we speak,”_ Jigsaw's voice says, and he sounds goddamn pleased about it. Tony's stomach tightens further. _“But don't worry. They are not in danger if they play by the rules. I only want to give them a chance to see if you have learned anything from them. Your team's knowledge and instincts is your key out of this building.”_

As sucky as that sounds alone – and Tony really, really hopes Jigsaw's lying about the Avengers watching (and how the fuck does he know so much about him and them?), Tony can't help but feel like things are still too... easy.

_“In your system is a fast-working poison,”_ Jigsaw says, and Tony sighs internally, _“one I'm sure you're already familiar with, since you have tried to track me down for some time. Unless you retrieve an antidote, you will be dead in two hours. And to get the antidote, you will need to pass a series of tests.”_

Tony's eyes widen. Series? A _series_ of tests? Fuck. Fuck fuckety fuck.

_“If you can make it out of this room, you will have to cooperate with other subjects in order to get out. The next two hours of your life will depend on your ability to play well with others. Live or die, Tony. Make your choice.”_ And the tape recorder whirs to a halt.

Tony curses aloud, because it makes him feel a little better. His feet feel numb, as do his wrists, but it's not too bad. He feels at his neck; the collar he's wearing is made of iron, but below is another, tighter collar made of hard plastic. It's not quite tight enough to cut off his air flow, but it still feels like it's slowly choking him. Tony tries to wriggle one of his fingers beneath the collar, but it's too tight.

Nothing seems to be happening yet, but the poison must already be in his system, so Tony has no time to lose. He begins to look around.

The tub is too far away. There's no key in sight. But behind the semi-shattered mirror, only a few feet from where he's curled up on the dirty, bloody tiles, Tony thinks he can see something.

Getting to his knees, Tony begins to crawl over there, the shackles immediately tightening. Before he's halfway over, the iron collar's uncomfortably tight around his throat – although when Tony stretches out his legs behind him, he's got a little more leeway. Inch by inch, he moves across the floor, until he can reach out a hand. The movement cuts off his air source, but only for as long as he needs to grab the thing – another goddamn tape recorder – and then pull back.

There's a small _ping_. Inside the wall, the white string must have snapped, because it comes through the small hole and falls to the floor, a short, thin plastic tube hanging by the end of it. A faint _whoosh_ sound starts coming from the wall, and Tony retreats and picks up the tube bit. He coughs once the pressure on his throat lessens and runs a finger over the iron collar. Iron. How fucking ironic.

This recorder is old, nearly rusty, and has a note that says _Breathe through it_. The whooshing sound increases and Tony quickly presses 'play'.

_“Hello, Tony. This is your first test of five. Each test represents the team mates whose opinions and advice you find so easy to discard. The string you just pulled kick-starts a mechanism that will gradually fill your container with water. Dislodging either of the two tubes leading to your container will trigger the permanent lock on the door, trapping you in this room indefinitely.”_

From the green tube, which Tony can see attached to the glass box on the side, clear, cold water starts to sputter. It's icy around Tony's throat, filling the box slowly. _Fuck, no. No, no, no._

_“The container you are wearing is bullet and water proof, courtesy of Stark Industries,”_ Jigsaw's voice continues. _“The lock on the back of your container has a countdown-clock that activated at the removal of the string. It will automatically open in ten minutes. Can you rely on your ability to hold your breath, or will you need to follow another's advice? Your decision balances on a knife's edge; one wrong step and you will fall. Make your choice, Tony.”_

~*~

“Play the file,” Natasha says to Coulson, her eyes trained on the computer screen. She looks pale, but otherwise unruffled. Clint isn't fooled; can see the way her jaw is locked tight, how her spine is straight enough to be painful. Steve and Thor are back, and Coulson has explained to the demi-god and the Captain just who Jigsaw is – and what usually happens to his victims. Clint's head throbs with fear.

“We need to find-” Steve says.

“ _Play the file,_ Coulson,” Natasha says in her Black Widow voice. The voice that makes even Captain America shut up and retreat a step.

Coulson just nods.

_“Hello, Avengers. I want to play a game.”_

“Sick fucker,” Clint whispers.

_“Don't worry – no harm will come to you if you follow my instructions. This game is not meant for you.”_

On the first monitor, Clint can see water starting to fill Tony's box, his eyes wide with fear as he tries to tug it off.

_“It is your job to save people, save the world. But once the villains are vanquished and the battle is over, you leave for the next battle, leaving the aftermath – the clean-up – to others. For you, 'saving' is something that takes hours, maybe days. Never weeks, or months, or years.”_

Bruce takes off his glasses and starts cleaning them, his hands trembling. Nobody says a word.

_“Today, you are not here to save anyone. You are here to help with the clean-up, for once in your life. Do not attempt to find your team mate; only the next two hours will lead you to where he can be found. Remember, this is not your test. It is Tony's. You are not meant to save anyone.”_ And that seems to be the end of the message.

“Fuck,” Clint says. “Fuck, _fuck_.” _God,_ how he hates the self-righteous prick. There is no torture too harsh enough for the Jigsaw Killer when they find him. _When._

“Right,” Steve says, his voice hard and full of authority. “Where do we start looking? Agent Coulson, can you trace the monitors and find out where Tony is? If we-”

“No,” Natasha cuts him off. Clint barely hears her, the sound of blood thundering in his ears; the mocking sound of Jigsaw's voice over the monitor earlier. _First of five._

“E- excuse me?” Steve says. “Natasha, we have to look for Tony!”

“No, we really don't,” she says, her voice perfectly level, maybe even calm. “We stay here, and we don't do _anything_. You hear me, Cap?”

“What – no! I don't!”

“What is the meaning of this, lady Natasha?” Thor thundered. “Our shield brother needs our assistance; it is our duty. _Your_ duty.”

“Agent Romanoff is right,” Coulson says, and Clint feels himself sink a little, even though he knows. He knows Natasha is right, and that makes everything so much worse.

“Wha- Coulson?” Steve sounds so betrayed, and so angry. Bruce has yet to say a word, but when Clint manages to open his eyes and look up at the scientist, the man's eyes are tinged a bright green.

“I have worked on the Jigsaw cases for a year now,” Coulson says, and looks at Clint. He looks apologetic, which doesn't fucking make Clint feel better, except it kind of does. “The man is a master at what he does. Even SHIELD can't find him.”

Tony's muffled cursing comes over the monitor. Clint can see him struggle to pull his box off, and knows there's no use.

“What does that have to do with this?” Steve says.

“The Jigsaw Killer is exceptional in a number of ways, Captain Rogers.” Coulson looks as grim as he sounds, but his tone brooks no argument. “I need you – all of you – to understand this. His work is unparalleled, his death traps nearly inescapable, but not impossible to survive. But that's not all. He also has a number of back-up plans in order; traps to secure his victims' privacy and his own survival.” He folds his hands delicately, but Clint can see them tightening. “Believe me when I say that we do not want to go against his explicit commands.”

“We're just going to listen to a deranged psychopath and, what? Wait around and watch while Tony's tortured and killed?” Steve says, his voice loud and tight with anger. 

“You don't get it, Cap,” Natasha says, still so calm. “Jigsaw loves riddles and puzzles. Hence the name. His messages – they always have several layers to them. What he just said – that it's not our job to do the saving this time, but the aftermath...” She glances at the monitor, takes a level breath. “We're meant to stay here and watch. That's our test.”

“He said we're not the test subjects,” Bruce says, still staring at the floor. He's taking deep, calm breaths, Clint notices, his eyes flickering between brown and green. Trying to keep himself in check.

“That he lied about,” Natasha says and glances at Coulson, who takes over.

“Jigsaw tests everyone he has contact with, in one form or another. His traps are complicated, and one wrong step can kill everyone involved. If we start looking for Tony, we're more likely to get him – and all the others – killed in the process than we are to retrieving him.”

Steve keeps glaring at them, looking utterly betrayed. “Clint?” he says, finally, and Clint can hear that he's the Captain's ultimate weapon. Clint and Tony's relationship was never a secret from the team, only from the rest of the world, and Steve's near-pleading tone is what gets Clint back into the conversation.

“We can't,” he says tightly. He knows it shouldn't feel like he just gave Tony the death sentence, but it does. “They're right – it's a specific warning, and we can't ignore that. Not from Jigsaw. If – _when_ Tony finishes his tests, he'll be let out of the building.” He glances at the monitors. There are over a dozen of them, showing different rooms, each more gruesome than the next, and in four of them, four other people. Clint hasn't looked at them properly, not yet – all his focus is on Tony, struggling to crawl across the floor towards the broken mirror. “I think we're meant to find him,” Clint says quietly. “The aftermath – I think that's what Jigsaw's talking about.” He folds his arms so he won't punch the monitors, and looks at his handler.

Coulson nods, once. “We're meant to find the survivors, handle the clean-up. Tony is supposed to survive.”

“I do not understand,” Thor says, clenching his beloved Mjølnir. “Are we not warriors? Do we not fight?!”

“Not this time, Thor,” Natasha says quietly.

Steve suddenly looks like a small, lost Brooklyn boy. Tony's making choked noises from the speakers.

“Dr. Banner,” Coulson says. “You need to leave.”

Bruce sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I really don't want to do that, Agent.”

“I know. But it's a necessity at this point; we have no hope to restrain the Hulk and he will undoubtedly trigger Jigsaw's security traps.” Coulson purses his lips, and his carefully bland look flickers. “Return to the Tower; don't tell anyone _anything_ about what's going on or where Tony is. Not even JARVIS. Until we find out who the mole is, we can't risk alerting anyone. It might alert Jigsaw.”

“There's a mole?” Steve asks.

“Bruce,” Natasha says, and doesn't continue. Bruce grimaces, a look of pain Clint rarely sees on the gentle doctor's face.

“Yeah. Okay. I just – just get him out of there, okay?” For a moment, Bruce locks eyes with Clint and his skin takes on a deep, green hue.

“ _Bruce_ ,” Natasha says.

The doctor sucks in a breath, and then leaves the room on stiff legs. When they return their attention to the leftmost monitor, the box on Tony's head is almost half-filled with water.

Natasha actually sucks in a breath.

“Tasha?” Clint asks, dreading the answer.

“It's me,” she says. “He was talking about me.”

“Agent?” Coulson asks.

“'Your decision balances on a knife's edge',” Natasha says. “It's – I had a conversation with Stark three months ago, on the Helicarrier – how does he _know_ all this?”

“I don't know,” Coulson says and looks over at the other monitors. They can only see the faces of three of the others from the camera's vantage point. An elderly man, a grey-haired woman, and another, younger woman. The last one looks to be a man, curled up in a chair-like contraption. “I have a feeling that the other victims might shed some light on the situation,” Coulson adds, quietly.

“Why?” Steve asks. He still looks like he wants to punch them all unconscious and then go off on his own, but he's a soldier. He knows how to follow orders, even if he hates them.

“Jigsaw's words to Tony,” Phil says. “This all seems to be about Tony – in one way or the other.”

Natasha mutters under her breath in Russian. _Grab a shard._

Clint frowns at the words, but she doesn't acknowledge him. So he turns to the monitor instead, where Tony's panicking as his bowl slowly, steadily fills all the way.

~*~

Tony can't hold his breath for ten minutes. He's guaranteed to drown in that time – and Jigsaw hinted at some other way. But there's nothing here; no way for Tony to get this _fucking_ thing off his head. He's tried pulling, tried smashing it against the wall, tried to claw it open, and just – just _nothing_.

Maybe he's better off dying in the first test. At least drowning isn't that painful, all things considered. Except Tony's totally lying to himself, and he knows, because drowning is the worst fucking way to die _ever_ , and he can't – he just can't. The smell of water, the panic, brings back Afghanistan in HD and surround sound, and Tony heaves with breath long before the water reaches his jaw. God, he can't die like this. He won't. He _refuses_ , okay? Because there's a way, although it's definitely painful as fuck, knowing how Jigsaw works.

_Another's advice_ , he'd said. Tony looks around the room, desperate, even though he knows he won't find anything new. _Your decision balances on a knife's edge._ Those words. Metaphors; they always mean something with this crazy bastard.

The water's up to his lower lip, now, and Tony tilts his head back to gain a little time. _C'mon, Stark. This is just another experiment you gotta solve. C'mon. Think._

The water glitters, the harsh bathroom light reflected in the shards of glass on the floor. And the memory falls into place in Tony's head like a brick to his occipital lobe.

 

_Tony strolls over to Agent Romanoff, swaggering and trying maybe to flirt with her a little. Why he tries, Tony isn't sure. It's not working, at any rate; Romanoff ignores him, as she usually does, and flips her knife again. There are a number of neat, even dents in the table where she's embedded the knife over and over again; SHIELD is probably pissed that she's destroying their property, but Tony guesses no one has the balls to actually chew her out for it._

_“Nice,” he says when he's close enough to see that the indentations aren't random. In fact, they're creating a blob that looks disturbingly like the coast line of Europe. “And here I thought Steve was the artsy one of us.”_

_“I'm working on my precision,” Romanoff says, and sounds bored. She flips her knife again, over and over, the amount of dents growing fast as she starts to create border lines between the countries._

_“And geography,” Tony says, and she doesn't reply. He sits down next to her, because she doesn't seem to mind him being around, for once, and Tony can't sleep. Can never sleep on the Helicarrier. “So what's the deal with the details?”_

_“Sometimes a millimeter is the difference between life and death,” she says quietly._

_“Like when?” Because he's an asshole, seriously, and there's a weight behind the spy's words that makes Tony think there's a specific story here. He just hopes he won't get stabbed for his troubles._

_Romanoff looks over at him, her gaze heavy. Her knife stills, so does Tony. They just stare at each other for a while, and Tony has a distinct feeling he's getting evaluated. But he doesn't say anything, or move, and after what feels like minutes, she goes back to her art project._

_“Krakow, six years ago,” she says. “I was pretty new in SHIELD, Agent Lewallen was my handler. It was before Coulson took me on.” Her head cocks, and she finishes Russia's border. “It wasn't even a mission, just a dinner after a debriefing. He had a favorite restaurant, and made me come with him. I suspect he thought it would be a date.”_

_Tony can't help but snort at that. “Did you kill him for it?”_

_One corner of her mouth quirks upwards, but she doesn't say anything._

_“I'm sorry, you were telling a bedtime story,” Tony says and waves his hands. “Terribly rude of me, go on. I'm totally listening.”_

_“Agent Lewallen was about halfway through his meal when a small, but sharp fish bone got stuck in his throat,” Romanoff says, and the blandness of her tone makes Tony want to shiver, for some reason. “His throat swelled up. Choked him.”_

_“Did you do the Heimlich?” Tony asks, trying to dispel the sudden tension, because it's making his skin prickle. “Take him from behind?” He waggles his eyebrows._

_The next thing he knows, he's on the floor, with the Black Widow straddling him. The knife she holds rests against Tony's throat, and she looks as calm as fucking ever. “The hell?” Tony gasps, and he's not scared, damn it._

_“I stabbed him in the throat,” she says, before smiling – an actual, motherfucking smile. Tony's eyes threaten to roll out of his skull. “Right. Here.” And she leans the tip of the blade against the dip where his throat meets his collar bones._

_“Hey, easy on the good stuff,” Tony chokes out and he's not nervous, okay? He's not. Except Romanoff's obviously gone fucking insane._

_“If I'd been a few millimeters off, just a few,” she says calmly, “I could have killed him.” The tip presses against his skin a little more firmly, but he knows it's not actually drawing blood. Not yet, anyway._

_“That's great, I totally believe you,” Tony gasps out. “Really.”_

_Her eyes glaze over. “He still has the scar, obviously. But he survived.” Another smile. “He refused to work with me again.”_

_“Can't see why,” Tony grits out. “You're very charming.”_

_Romanoff hums, quietly – and then she's off him and back by the table, the knife once again embedded in the wooden surface._

_“Jesus,” Tony says and rolls onto his side. He feels dizzy and he paws at his throat, but there's no blood. “You're fucking crazy, you know that?”_

_“Thank you,” she says._

_Tony gets to his feet, unsteady._

_“Good night, Tony.”_

_“Right.” He gets the hell out of there._

_The next morning, a complete world map adorns the Helicarrier's living room table._

 

Tony throws himself at the pieces of broken mirror, the chain immediately constricting, tugging at his ankles and throat. The water in his box sloshes over his mouth and nose, and Tony manages a strangled gasp before the water level's too high for him to breathe.

He crawls forward, inch by inch, his head forced further and further back, until he has to close his eyes and focus on his fingers. Finally they close around something sharp, nicking his fingertips as he picks up the mirror shard and backs up, still holding his breath. He reaches blindly for the piece of string by his side and grabs the small tube. He'll need that later.

The water's above his nose, now, by his eyelids, and Tony has to keep his eyes closed. He feels for his collarbone with his free hand, finding the small dip in his throat, conjuring up the image of Natasha's knife resting against that one point.

_If you're millimeters off, just a few_ , he can hear her say, but he doesn't have a choice, does he? He's only got one shot. Got to make it count.

He lifts the mirror shard blindly, finds that same spot, and knows that the box is filled up entirely by now. Tries to ignore the cold water pressing in from all sides; the throbbing in his temples as his body aches to catch its breath; the memories of angry voices shouting at him in a language he doesn't know, pushing his head under water, keeping him there.

_Here goes nothing_ , Tony thinks, and jabs the shard into his throat.

~*~


	3. Like a Nerve

“I taught him that,” Natasha says, her fingers clenching once before relaxing again. “On the Helicarrier, ages ago. Just after the Battle of New York.” She turns to Coulson. “Jigsaw must have had him under surveillance for months.”

He nods, but doesn't say anything.

“What is the purpose of this self-inflicted wound?” Thor asks.

“He's creating a breathing hole,” Natasha says. “So he won't drown.”

They watch a stream of blood run down Tony's throat, and Clint wants to scream. He can't see from here whether Tony's off with his aim or not, and Tony lets the mirror piece fall to the ground. He braces both his hands against the dirty floor, on all fours now, the blood dripping from the puncture wound in his throat. There's something small and tube-like in his hand, and Tony presses it against the hole in his throat until one end slips into it. The screen is in black and white, but in Clint's mind, it all changes into Technicolor.

“Mmm,” Natasha says, and Clint's heart surges.

“Yeah?” he says, and his voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” she says with an incline of her head. Steve lets out a breath.

“Lady Natasha?” Thor asks.

“He's breathing now. Look at his shoulders.”

It's almost impossible, the camera unable to zoom in, but Clint can see it too, now; Tony's shoulders rise and fall rapidly, jerkily, as he breathes and coughs through the tube in the fresh hole in his body. Clint swears in Russian and Natasha quirks a smile to show her own relief.

“He's breathing? He's okay?” Steve asks, urgent and staring hard enough at the screen that it might combust under the scrutiny.

“He's not okay, and he's not out of the woods yet, by far,” Phil says. “But I think we can safely say he just passed the first test.”

“ _Your boy is strong,_ ” Natasha says quietly in her mother tongue, eyes flickering over to meet Clint's.

“Da,” Clint says on an exhale. “Da.”

~*~

His head's pounding, his limbs trembling, and he's dizzy to the point of nausea. He can taste blood in his mouth, the tube that serves as his windpipe hurts the back of his throat, and he's barely getting enough air to stay conscious. But he doesn't seem to be bleeding out any time soon – or drowning – so Tony considers it a win.

He's too out of it to count the seconds, but it feels like an hour before the box's collar around his throat clicks open, the water sloshing out and soaking his clothes. He gets the fucking head-coffin _off_ – but puts it down gently so he won't accidentally unplug the wires and lock himself in here for good – and gasps and splutters once he can take a breath with his mouth again. The small puncture in his throat is still bleeding sluggishly, and he grabs his t-shirt and rips off the bottom part so he can tie it around his throat. It's the best he can do for now.

The box is off, but the iron collar isn't. “The fuck?” Tony says out loud, because it's just too goddamn _quiet_ in here and – and how is he supposed to get out of the room?

He feels around the collar, and on the back of his neck, he can feel a small hole – a key hole. So where's the key?

Panic slowly starting to build in the back of his mind again, reminding Tony that he's only got two hours and there are four more tests to go, so _get a fucking move on, Stark_. He systematically checks every inch of the chains connecting him to the wall. Solid all around. There's nothing else by the mirror; he still can't reach the tub. Nowhere else to check, Tony looks over his old head cage again – and realizes that inside the timed lock is what looks like a Stark mini-pad. One of the smallest mp3-players on the market, released just a few months ago. The fucker's using Tony's own technology against him – and Tony is really fucking _tired_ of bad guys doing that.

_“If you are playing this tape, Tony, congratulations. You have passed my first test.”_

Tony can't help but make a woop-woop noise. Just because. (And maybe because his team might be watching right now. He hopes they aren't. He hopes they're on their way to get him the fuck out of here.)

_“You might not know what it is like to be exposed, like a nerve. But you know someone who does. Did you ever wonder what it felt like, to have your flesh exposed? Now you have a chance to find out for yourself.”_

All sense of accomplishment runs out of him, like sound out of a broken hourglass. “Fuck,” Tony says hoarsely, because he's seen enough Jigsaw cases to know exactly what's coming. “ _Fuck_!”

_“Somewhere in your body is the key to your chains. The door is unlocked. But I suggest you hurry – your time is running out to find an antidote. Stay in control, Tony.”_

~*~

“Fucker! You _fucker_!” Clint's glad Coulson and Natasha are there to hold him back; otherwise he'd probably have smashed the monitors to fucking pieces. The crazy bastard's gonna make Tony _cut_ in himself, and just – no. _No._

“Barton, _stand down_ ,” Coulson snaps his Agent Agent voice (as Tony calls it), and – yeah, that actually helps him think through the haze of memories and sheer, pure _fury_. Clint forces his body to relax a fraction, and pulls himself into military pose.

“We know, Clint,” Natasha says and grips the back of his neck hard and pulls him close, into a mixture between a hug and a neck grip. “We know. Calm down. Nothing we can do right now.”

“I'm so glad Bruce isn't here anymore,” Steve says tightly, and Coulson and Thor nod. Clint concentrates on his breathing.

For the first time, pain ghosts over Natasha's features. “He'll get through it.”

“These barbaric tasks are all centered around us,” Thor says.

“What do you mean, Thor?” Coulson says, and sounds close to bland. Too bland. Which means   
Thor's right on and Coulson knows already. Clint's whole skin is itching.

“The first task,” the prince says and looks at Natasha. “You taught Tony the means to survive it.”

“Well, not exactly,” Natasha points out, but Coulson nods.

“And now this Jigsaw mentions the troubles of Doctor Banner,” Thor continues. “Did he not also claim the tests would be five-fold?”

“Each of the tasks are about one of us?” Steve asks, and looks appalled at the knowledge that one of these tortures will be directly connected to him.

Natasha doesn't let go of Clint. Clint doesn't trust himself not to attack the screen, so he leans against his oldest friend and hopes Tony's key is placed somewhere easily accessible.

“Wait,” Natasha barks out and turns to one of the other monitors. “Listen.”

It's quiet, the sound muted, but they can hear Jigsaw's voice from one of the other screens. After a brief look through them, Coulson points at one of the middle ones, and they all crowd closer to it. The room looks like a defective freezer, and the person inside is an older woman with salt-and-pepper curls, wearing a dirtied summer dress.

_“- made a fortune feeding the media lies,”_ comes Jigsaw's voice from seemingly nowhere, as there is no tape recorder in the room. More than that; the woman's fastened to the kind of elaborate torture chair that shows up so often in the madman's work. _“Claiming to be a close source of celebrities, among them Tony Stark, spreading rumors to give your own life a semblance of meaning,”_ Jigsaw continues.

“Fucking – that's probably the bitch who told _US Weekly_ that Tony had tested positive for HIV,” Clint snarls.

Coulson just sends him a look, and Clint knows, okay? He knows. She doesn't deserve to be here. She doesn't deserve this. It doesn't stop a shard of glee from going through him.

“I wonder if she was the 'anonymous source' who claimed I was in an abusive relationship with Tony,” Steve says quietly.

Thor snorts, and puts a hand on Steve's shoulder. Steve looks strangely comforted.

The woman's hands are strapped to the chair's metal arm rests, tight enough that she can't move them. A system of pulleys is connected to her head and neck, and some kind of metal crown is fitted onto her head. It holds her mouth open, like some kind of medieval gag, and right above her face hangs a glass jar filled with something shimmery and yellow. Three chains are connected to it; two on either side, hanging from the ceiling, but seem to be connected to the pulley system in a way that Clint can't see from the camera's angle. The third chain connects to the woman's crown, on her forehead, and is pulled taut.

_“The only thing that keeps you in this chair, is the glass right above your head,”_ Jigsaw says, and the woman whimpers through her gag-like entrapment.

Natasha swears in Russian; Steve swallows. “Acid,” he says, and nobody contradicts him.

_“Empty the glass, and the lock will open. But I suggest you move quickly; in ninety seconds, a power switch will activate, and you would do well to be out of this chair. What will it be, Laura? Will you feed yourself as you have fed others lies? Make your choice.”_ And the unmistakable sound of a countdown clock starts ticking. The woman – Laura – whimpers and begs against the gag.

“Pull your head back, you moron,” Clint mutters under his breath, his heart hammering. He doesn't actually want the woman to die. He's not that petty.

After a few seconds of fighting the restraints, Laura evidently seems to reach the same conclusion, and pulls her head back enough that the glass tilts. It splashes across her face and into her mouth, eliciting a garbled shriek of pain. Her flesh sizzles and starts to melt away.

“I have seen much torture in my travels,” Thor says, his voice raspy. “But nothing of this kind. The cruelty of these experiments surpasses even my brother's imagination. I pray that he may never know of this Jigsaw.”

Steve just nods, silent and pale.

Laura keeps tugging her head backwards, splashes of acid marring her face forever and making blood and skin drip down onto her summer dress. She screams and cries, but keeps trying, and with each pull, the glass becomes lighter and is lifted a few centimeters. _Now_ Clint gets the pulley system; the weight of the glass is what keeps the restraints locked tight. If she can splash a little more acid out, she'll be able to worm her way out of the chair and to freedom.

But even as the last of the acid hits the woman's face, Coulson does a minute shake of his head. He looks – he looks _old_ , Clint thinks. Like he's aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.

“She could,” Clint says, but he sounds resigned. Jesus.

“The time, Barton,” Coulson says quietly.

“What?” Steve looks between them. “You mean she won't-”

Coulson doesn't need to reply – in that exact second, half out of the chair, half in it, the sound of a power-up comes over the monitor's speakers. Clint closes his eyes, but he can't escape the sounds; the sizzling of flesh burned through by electricity, and the woman's scream gains another octave before it dies down.

Thor roars in anger.

“The thing to remember with Jigsaw,” Coulson says tightly, and Clint opens his eyes, “is that eighty-nine percent of his victims never make it out of his traps alive. It's – these are odds you need to be aware of.” He doesn't say anything else; doesn't need to. They all turn their attention from the freezer – where the charred remains of Laura's body still sizzle– back to Tony's room.

Clint is sure he's not the only one with the phantom smell of burning flesh in his nostrils.

~*~

Tony checks through most of his body for recent scars or something, working his way from his feet and up, before he thinks about the words Jigsaw used. _'in your own mind'._ Jigsaw doesn't do coincidences – he _never does, Tony Stark, you dumb motherfucker._

He curses out loud and rakes his fingers through his hair, his forehead, under his jaw, every inch of his skull, looking for a bump.

He finds it.

The back of his neck, near his occipital lobe; on the outside of the bone, he can feel something small and hard right underneath his skin. Tony doesn't waste any more time, too much has passed already. He just grabs the same mirror shard and closes his eyes, feels his way to the haphazard, small stitches, and slices.

~*~

Clint doesn't realize how lucky they were, in a way, with the first task. Not until Tony – who's been quiet up until now aside from a few curses – begins to cry out in pain. It's quiet, at first; a deep groan, a flinch of pain, a shudder as blood starts running down the back of his neck.

“Precision, Stark,” Natasha says under her breath, her fingers tight enough around Clint's wrists to bruise. Clint appreciates the physical pain. It feels like, by hurting a little, he can take some of the pain from Tony.

_“Fuck, fuck,”_ Tony grits out, cutting again when he can't get the key loose on the first try. More blood soaks the back of his t-shirt, and the superhero's cries grow louder.

“Son of a gun,” Steve says, sounding strangled. “The back of his _head_?”

Clint grits out a laugh that's so far from a laugh it's scary.

“Tony's been through much worse,” Coulson says, ever the voice of reason. He's loosened his shirt collar, and there's color high in his cheeks. Coulson's the best actor of all of them, Clint thinks, and even he's slowly unraveling.

Clint groans in relief when Tony pulls out the bloody, small key and gets himself out of his shackles. Then he's up, unsteady at first, and runs towards the exit on bare feet. The Avengers turn their attention to the other monitors. One of the other victims seems to have survived their first test, Clint notices. It's the other woman; young, blonde, wearing an apron and what looks like a waitress's outfit. Her eyes are sunken and there's blood covering most of her outfit, but apart from that she seems somewhat okay. She's making her way down a dimly lit corridor, one similar to the narrow hallway Tony's currently stumbling through. Her skin looks almost blue and she's shivering violently, and Clint doesn't need to look through many monitors to find out where she came from; a freezer, with a pair of bloody manacles lying coiled on the floor.

“Look, number four's waking up,” Natasha says and nods at one of the rightmost monitors. 

In a bare room with iron walls, a man who looks a little older than Phil is slowly waking up, looking around. He's sweating heavily already, and overweight, wearing a toupée that's slowly falling off. In a collar around his neck Clint can count at least eight sharp blades. They don't seem to be in contact with the man's skin for now, a second, outer collar keeping them still. Clint can see how this contraption works easily enough; the edges of the second collar are connected to a countdown clock, ready to spring when it reaches zero, and the clock itself is connected to a scale by the man's feet. Clint doesn't know what the scale is for, but he can guess when he sees the rusty saw and sharp knife resting on the man's lap. His arms are free, a thick iron strap around his middle keeping him in the chair.

Also on the man's lap is another recorder, and after a few minutes of looking around and freaking out, the guy picks it up and presses play. Jigsaw talks about him; apparently this guy, Andrew Prettson, works as a board member in Stark Industries, and he's making Stark weapons on the side and selling them to the highest bidder – having taking over when Obadiah Stane was killed two years ago.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Clint says, choked. “He knew. Tony _knew_ there was someone dirty. It's why there are still Stark weapons out there.”

Coulson nods; so does Cap. None of them say a word, only stare grimly at the screen while Jigsaw explains that in order to get out, Andrew will need to strip himself of his privileges; namely, his own fat and limbs. Only when the scale tips 'to his favor' will the countdown clock stop, and the bladed collar disarm.

_“You have ninety seconds from the first pound of flesh hitting the scale – but remember, the nerve gas gives you a limited time to consider. Live or die, Andrew. Make your choice.”_

~*~


	4. Galaga Guy

His throat aches, and the back of his skull pounds with the blood loss, but Tony knows it's only going to get worse from here. He stumbles through door-less hallways until he reaches a big, rectangular, naked room; there's nothing here but five other doors, none of them marked in any way. The only thing in this room is a small radio, placed on the floor. As Tony walks over to it, one of the doors open and he spins around, still clutching the mirror shard.

It's a woman, small, bloody, trembling, and wearing a fucking _apron_ of all things. “Don't!” she cries when she sees the shard he's holding as a weapon. “Don't come any closer, I'll kill you!” Her voice cracks mid-sentence.

“Okay, let's calm down,” he says and lowers the shard. Another vic, no doubt. “I'm trapped here as much as you are.”

She blinks at him, looking skittish and like she's about one step from trying to bite his throat out in self-defense – but then she takes a stuttered breath and nods, her tense, fight-or-flight posture relaxing by a fraction. “It's – it's the Jigsaw, isn't it?” she says. “I've heard about him on the news.”

“Yeah. He told me he wanted us to cooperate.” Tony picks up the radio with hands he notices are shaking. He turns it on, but all he can hear is static. “I'm Tony, by the way.”

“It's not working?” the girl asks and takes a few step closer. “And I'm – Wendy.” She pushes her matted, dirty locks away from her face and frowns. “Maybe it's broken.”

“Nah, probably just – the wrong station,” Tony mutters, to himself as much as to Wendy, and starts fiddling with the dials.

“Are we the only ones here?” Wendy asks and glances at the other doors. Her body shudders once.

“Doubt it. Jigsaw has this thing about the number five.” Tony looks around. “Aaaand judging by the six doors here, I'm guessing one for each of us, and the last one leading hopefully outta here.” More static.

“Then... then where is everyone else?” Wendy asks, quiet.

~*~

“And then there were three,” Natasha says quietly when the countdown clock reaches zero and the blades slice simultaneously into the business man's neck, cutting his head clean off. Coulson reaches up and tugs off his tie; balls it up in his fist and pushes it deep into his pocket. His mouth is a straight, thin line.

“I fear the nature of Tony's remaining tasks,” Thor says, quietly – for him – and puts down his hammer. “He is already weakened.”

“He's stronger than we think,” Clint bites out.

“We know, Clint,” Natasha murmurs, but she looks a little worried – which, by Natasha's standards, means she's freaking the fuck out behind her cool mask.

They listen as Tony finally finds the right radio frequency, he and Wendy in what seems to be the room where all the similar hallways lead to. Jigsaw explains about team work, and tells them to find the rest of their team.

“C'mon, Tony, get your ass in gear,” Clint mutters. “You've still got three more tasks to go.” He wonders briefly what kind of hell Jigsaw has prepared and stamped Clint's name on, and forcibly pushes the thought away. He can't – he just can't. He has to trust that Tony can do this.

He can. Clint knows he can. Tony made a fucking reactor out of scrap metal _while being tortured_ in Afghanistan. This is nothing.

(Clint is shit at lying, but he doesn't care.)

Tony and the waitress Wendy – and it annoys Clint that he didn't see what happened with her before she stumbled down the hallway – open one of the doors and sneak down a different hallway. The Avengers see where it leads before the others; Wendy screams when she sees the mutilated body of the older woman, Laura. Tony's face just tightens up until it looks painful, before he barks something about not having time to fuck around, and turns on his heels.

“He's cracking,” Natasha says, and Clint nods.

“Pardon?” Thor asks.

“Tony's not... great at dealing with other people dying because of him,” Clint gets out.

The two guinea pigs open another of the three remaining doors and walk down the hallway, faster now. Wendy's crying, but quietly; understated. Her survival instinct is in the foreground, Clint thinks.

As long as she doesn't fuck Tony over, he hopes she'll get out.

~*~

“Oh, thank God,” Wendy says when they find the next room – and the guy inside looks back at them, freaked out but very much alive.

“Mmmph!” The guy says, clad in a dirtied, black suit. He's strapped to a chair, similar to the one in the dead woman's room, fighting his restraints desperately. He's wearing one of Jigsaw's favorites, Tony notices; the reversed bear trap. It's locked securely around most of the poor guy's face, hooked into his mouth. It's a hell of a lot of metal, but Tony's seen in forensic report pictures what it does if you don't get it off you in time: it wrenches your head backwards, leaving your lower jaw behind.

Tony can't help but feel like he's gotten off easy, so far. “Hey, guy – just relax, alright? You don't wanna accidentally trigger the mechanism.”

The guy immediately pipes down, and sucks in a sharp breath. “Mmph, mmm,” he tries to say, tossing his head back a little – as much as he's able to.

“What? The opening mechanism's at the back?” Tony walks around the room, careful to check for other possible traps, but the room seems clean. Behind the guy's head is no lock, though – only yet another recorder that says _play me, Tony_.

Like the fucker knew he was gonna get this far.

“It's got your name on it,” Wendy says, frowning, and grabs the small device. “That is so fucking freaky.”

“No, wait-” but she's already pulled it, and they all hear the _snap_ of a string, and the subsequent beeping of a countdown clock.

“When you're in a death puzzle, it's usually an idea to _not touch stuff_!” Tony yells at Wendy because god _dammit_ , and she flinches and apologizes but it's done now, it's fine, what-the-fuck-ever, and Tony grabs the recorder and presses play while the other guy's freaking out beside them.

_“Hello, Tony. I'm glad you have made it this far. Meet Adrien Collins, agent of SHIELD.”_

The guy whimpers. Tony frowns and walks back around so he can look at the guy's face. There's something... strangely familiar with him.

_“Adrien works in one of the most secret organizations in the world, but not even SHIELD knows all of this man's secrets,”_ Jigsaw says.

Tony looks closer, at the parts of Adrien's face that aren't covered by the bear trap. _That man's playing Galaga! He thought we wouldn't notice... but we did._

“You were on the Helicarrier!” Tony blurts when he realizes, and Collins flinches.

_“SHIELD agents earn a generous salary, but evidently not enough for Agent Collins. He's found an excellent solution, however, for what does an organization like SHIEILD have an overabundance of, if not information? Information Adrien has been selling to the highest bidder. Security tapes, folders, passwords – anything he could find on The Avengers Initiative.”_

“Wait, aren't _you_ part of the Avengers?” Wendy asks Tony, a hint of anger in her voice. 

Collins begins to cry. He garbles at Tony through the gag, but Tony can barely hear him above the pounding of blood in his ears. 

_“I'm sure you have figured it out by now, Tony; this man is the reason you are here. And you alone hold the key to his survival.”_

Tony sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out in an effort to calm the fuck down. 

_“From the moment you removed this tape, Agent Collins' time is running out. He has a hundred and fifty seconds to appeal to your basic humanity.”_

Collins starts screaming through his gag in desperation, not in pain, the skin of his wrists chafing where he tries desperately to get loose from the chair. Still crying. Tony feels bile work its way up through his throat; in sympathy or anger or something entirely different, he doesn't know. 

_“Some people will forgive anything, will forever believe in redemption for their fellow humans or aliens, that they can change for the better. Are you one of those people, Tony? Can you find it in your heart to forgive the man who has caused you so much suffering? Make your choice.”_

“Jesus, Tony, get him out of there!” Wendy snaps. “Even if – if – look, he doesn't deserve to go like this! You saw what Jigsaw did to the other woman!” 

Her words echo in Tony's head, her screams tangling with phantom voices of his kidnappers; of Stane; of Vanko; of Loki. “I can't!” Tony shouts back, nearly blinded by the force of his own flashbacks. “I don't have a fucking key, okay!” 

Wendy stops and deflates. “Then-” and she turns to Collins, who is still pleading and sobbing and struggling desperately. “Fuck,” she says and brings her hands up to her chest, curling them into some sort of prayer, right above her heart. 

_Heart._

_Heart_. “Fuck, of course!” Tony gasps and pulls off the tattered remains of his t-shirt. The arc reactor casts a pale blue glow over Collins's face, and the his eyes widen. 

“What – oh, wow,” Wendy says. “I always thought that was some kind of a PR stunt.” 

Tony suppresses the urge to turn around so they won't see the scars; they're all getting new scars here, today. It's not the time to be shy. He unlocks the mechanism quickly, with steady hands, and pulls out the reactor without jostling any of the wires keeping him alive. When he pushes his other hand into his chest, feeling warmth and goop and seeing Wendy grimace, Tony feels a small piece of metal. The key. _The fucker messed with my reactor while I was unconscious_ , Tony thinks grimly and pulls it out, striding over to Collins.

Collins probably deserves to die. To be honest, Tony wouldn't mourn if he's too late – but this isn't supposed to be up to him. He's Iron Man; he may be an Avenger, but he is _not_ God. That way lies Loki-like madness. 

Collins stays completely still while Tony unlocks the bear trap, his breathing quick as a rodent's, and Tony just manages to wrench the trap over his head before there's one last, high-pitched _beep_ and the whole thing snaps together, nearly taking Tony's fingers with them. 

“Fuck!” Tony says and drops the thing. It falls to the floor with a great big _clang_ , and the chair's restraints unlock automatically. 

“Oh, God,” Collins says. His voice is dark and husky, his black hair is matted with sweat, and he absently wipes snot and tears off his face. “I didn't – I swear, I didn't know that-” 

“Leave it,” Tony snaps. “Let's just get out of here, okay? Good.” 

~*~

“Thor, you need to calm down,” Natasha says, but doesn't approach him. Thor's skin is _crackling_ with electricity, and he looks seconds away from smoking up this whole goddamn place.

“Thor,” Coulson says and sounds Reasonable with a capital R. “Tony passed the test. He knew that Jigsaw was referring to your brother, and he still made the correct choice. He did that to honor _you_. Show him the same courtesy; trust him to make it out of there alive.”

Clint doesn't know how much of that mini-speech is pure, improvised bullshit, but it works. Thor's shoulders slump, and the crackling dies a little, even if it doesn't disappear. Clint wonders, absently, if he'll get zapped if he touches him now.

“My deepest apologies, Son of Coul,” Thor rasps. “It causes me agony to see Tony suffer like this; I did not anticipate the impact of this Jigsaw's words. Were he here, I would kill him.” The last part's stated plainly, almost plaintively. Thor's so much like a human golden retriever sometimes, it's easy to forget that he's actually an alien-god creature. Clint is reminded of that again now.

“I know,” Coulson says to Thor, quiet. “We all know.”

“Three down, two to go,” Clint says, and hears how meek and off his own voice sounds. Steve glances at him; the good Captain looks shit-scared, and Clint knows what he's thinking about.

_What kind of horrors will Jigsaw put Tony through in order to 'honor' me and Steve?_

~*~

The fifth and last victim – an older guy, with half his stomach cut off in bloody chunks and his whole fucking head missing – is also dead. In the end they're three people who make their way towards the last door.

Behind it is yet another of these goddamn hallways, but this one looks even older, scruffy and stained by time. It's damp here, too, and they walk briskly, but carefully – Tony isn't sure how much time they've got left before the effects of the nerve gas become a no-win situation, but he _knows_ Jigsaw's a fan of random traps and he really doesn't want to get beheaded, thanks.

Collins and Wendy are quiet by his side, but they seem to have his back, or at least trust that Tony knows a _little_ bit of what the hell's going on. Which he does. Sort of. And the tests here seem to be strangely focused on Tony, too, which – well, frankly, pisses him off. And he's still got two of them to go.

He tries not to think about Steve and Clint. Those are the ones left; the virtues or lessons or what-the-fuck else Jigsaw must be thinking Tony should learn.

_Clint._

Tony doesn't look up at the ceiling for hidden cameras, and he definitely doesn't feel a little betrayed that nobody has come to his rescue yet. They probably wouldn't bother anyway; not with the array of security traps Jigsaw's undoubtedly rigged up around this place. Safer to hang back and wait for Tony to either make it out, or... or.

Yeah. Or.

~*~


	5. Cutting the Wire

“Cap, you might want to step outside for a few minutes,” Natasha says in that careful, blank voice she usually only uses when Bruce is going green and they're trapped in a small space. Tony and the other survivors have just entered a new room.

Sometimes, Clint is amazed at how fucking _smart_ Natasha is. It's so easy to forget, with all her smoke and mirrors, all those careful layers that not even Clint gets past, that Bruce and Tony aren't the only geniuses on this team.

“What?” Steve frowns at her, then at the screen, but he doesn't get it. Not yet. Clint doesn't either, but it's enough to know that Tasha does. This is going to get really bad – and it's not Clint's test.

The room Tony, Wendy and the agent – who will never again see the light of day even if he survives – are in, is small and filled with wires. There seems to be two levels; five separate razor wires strung across the floor, disappearing into their respective holes in the wall. They're about a foot above the ground, Clint guesses from the camera angle. Three feet above the floor, though, is another mesh of wires. And these ones are _buzzing_.

“Electricity,” Phil says quietly. Thor growls under his breath, as if he's deeply offended to have his own element used against his friend. Jigsaw has taken all of them, all of these things they have showed Tony as friends, or as bickering teammates, and twisted them into something ugly and unrecognizable. For a _game_.

Tony has found yet another one of those goddamn mp3's, and Jigsaw's voice rings once again over the monitor speakers.

_“Hello, Tony. Welcome to your fourth task. On the table to your right, you will see a pair of pliers strong enough to cut through the razor wire in front of you. There are two ways of leaving this room; either you must cut the right wire, or you must pull on all the five wires at the same time, with the same amount of force. Only then will the door unlock.”_

And when Thor and Phil stiffen and send Steve worried glances, Clint knows two things immediately. One, the Captain's going to have some lingering issues after this, no matter how – how it might turn out; and two, whatever Jigsaw's alluding to, it was while Clint was not there and the rest of the team was. When he was being Loki's bitch.

_“So what will it be, Tony? Will you make the sacrifice and let the others crawl over you? Or will you cut the wire? Make a choice.”_

And that's when Steve pales and takes a faltering step back, his shield falling to the ground with a strangely soft bell-like _clang_.

“Steve, don't let him do this to you,” Natasha says, soft and urgent, and Clint's violently reminded of his first minutes free of Loki's influence, trying to push away the memories and get his head sorted again. “We're all part of this game. That's how he plays.”

“I'm not the one that deserves _sympathy_ ,” Steve says, almost snarls, and looks disgusted with himself. Clint still feels like he's two steps behind everyone else, especially when he looks at the monitor and sees how fucking _lost_ Tony looks, the pair of pliers in his hand, staring at the hell of razor wire in front of him, the two other players urging him to make a decision.

“Put down the pliers, Stark,” Clint swears he can hear Phil say softly under his breath.

~*~

_Cut the wire. Right? Yeah. No. Cut the wire._ Tony closes his eyes and tries to think; to not listen to the voices inside _and_ outside his head, shouting at him with a million different voices.

 _Cut the wire, Anthony_ , he hears Howard say with an air of disdain. And that's a strong voice; it's loud, always has been. Probably always will be.

_But._ Tony clenches the pliers in his hand, hard enough that the metal bites into the skin of his palm.

Steve. This is Steve's test, no doubt about it. You'd think that flying a fucking nuke through a goddamn worm hole would count towards the whole lying-down-on-the-line thing, but apparently not.

And Tony can – he can. He has to. Yeah.

He can.

“Come on,” Tony says and puts the pliers back down, before kneeling in front of this proverbial minefield. “Listen – do not fucking touch this mesh, alright?” He points at the top part of this test, and Wendy frowns at him. “Hear that buzzing? You so much as _touch_ that shit, and you'll be served extra-crispy. Got me?”

Wendy nods, and Collins actually says “yes, sir.”

It would make Tony laugh, any other day. Any day but today. “Okay. I'm gonna lie down on top of all the wires. That _should_ open the door. You guys crawl over me and keep the door open until I get up, okay?”

They both nod again, both looking pale but resolute.

_Or you'll fuck off and leave me here to die,_ Tony doesn't say. That's his own test, after all. Sacrifice. Being Steve Rogers for a moment, throwing himself on the goddamn bomb instead of away, like Tony Stark does.

He goes to his knees, and starts to crawl.

~*~

“Captain,” Natasha says sharply. “Step outside. _Now_.”

Steve is trembling; cold fury and something Clint thinks is shame lighting up his eyes. Steve doesn't even look at Natasha, which is a pretty fucking good indication on how gone he is.

“Steven, I believe you and I should take our momentary leave,” Thor says, and Clint thanks him in his head. They need to get Steve out of here before the guy ignites from within with righteous fury – but Clint can't be the one to leave the room. He just – he can't.

It's the fucking least he owes Tony, to see and hear and _feel_ the same hell as he's going through.

“Come, Captain,” Thor says, his voice softening now, one of his hands moving down to the middle of Steve's back, pushing lightly. And Steve goes, like he doesn't even realize he's moving. He just leaves his shield discarded on the dirty floor and follows Thor outside. And Clint can actually see the resolve and pride and Captain-America-ness leave the guy with every step he takes, like shedding some kind of emotional skin.

By the time Steve Rogers walks out the door, Thor at his back, he looks more like his pre-serum self than a super-soldier.

The door has barely closed behind the two when Tony cries out in pain and Clint spins around. Tony's on the floor, stretched out, lying on all five wires, and they can all see that the door is open. Wendy is slowly crawling her way up Tony's body, careful not to touch the overhead wires, and though Clint can't _see_ it, he can hear Tony's gasps of pain when Wendy's added weight pushes the barbs deeper into Tony's body.

“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry,” he hears her apologize, nearly inaudible through the speakers. Before she's even across, though, Collins joins her, so that Tony carries the weight of two additional bodies on his own for a short, terrible minute.

“Hawkeye,” Coulson says, which is Clint's cue to realize that he's moved closer to the monitors again, fists raised and body coiled tight enough to snap at any give moment.

Natasha walks up to him and slides a hand around his waist. The touch is intimate, personal enough to jostle him out of his red-hot thoughts. “Through this task, Clint,” she says and doesn't look at him; just stares at the screen where Tony's gasps and short cries of pain are getting more frequent and urgent. “That's how long I need you to focus. We both know who the last task will focus on, and I need you to keep yourself in check until then.” First now does she look at him. “Can you do that?”

And he nods, teeth gritted hard enough that it hurts. Yeah. He can. After that, all bets are off.

He notices Phil nodding at Natasha, as if in thanks.

~*~

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Okay. Good. Great. Swearing, it helps. Awesome. Keep up with it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Tony!”

Tony snaps his head up to meet Wendy's eyes. She's standing in the doorway, holding it open. For him. Hey, what do you know, Tony isn't getting abandoned ( _yet_ , Howard's voice points out, and he ignores it).

“Yeah, I'm – gimme just a second,” Tony manages, and is pretty proud when it doesn't sound like he's talking with seventeen (yeah, he can count them) deep, sharp metal spurs embedded in his body. 

He tries to get _up_ before moving _forward_ , because it would really suck to get this far and then bleed out because the wire stuck in his skin. In the end, his brilliant plan only works halfway, because he can't lift up very far without getting awfully close to the zap-mesh, and the damn barbs cling to and rip at him when he moves anyway. But he manages to crawl out without nicking any major arteries, which is a feat in itself, and when he stumbles back onto his feet, Wendy is still there holding the door open.

“Thank you,” she says and looks down at his bloodied body. “For – thank you.”

“It's what I'm here for,” Tony says easily, even though the words don't come as easy or as clearly as they usually do. His t-shirt's beyond any rescue, and the hole in his throat is nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the countless puncture wounds he now has. Tony actually has to stop, once they're past the door, and pull off his t-shirt and tie it around his waist. There's a deep cut in his side, almost an inch long; one of those cuts that could keep on bleeding until he doesn't have any more blood to give.

And Tony Stark is not going to die because of a fucking _technicality_.

“Right, what joyous wonders await us next?” Tony says, and his voice weak and throaty when he needs it to be light and humorous. Damn traitor voice. Damn blood loss. Damn this whole fucking game to hell and every one of Tony's so-called _team_ who aren't here.

_Because it's rather them than you, is that it?_

Tony spits at the floor, sees the blood mixed with the saliva, and hates himself just a fraction more.

~*~

_“Hello, Wendy.”_

This room – Wendy's second room – is the smallest Tony's been in yet, Clint knows. It's not really a room at all; more like a big closet with a hole in the middle of the floor. Clint can't see from their vantage point what's in it, but Jigsaw tells them in his monologue directed at Wendy.

Needles. Used syringes. Wendy's a junkie.

Clint can see Coulson's deep frown, and he knows the three of them are thinking the same thing – what does Wendy have to do with Tony? Everyone else have been connected to him in some obscure way, but she's a waitress and a junkie, and neither of them act like they know each other from before.

_“You reached a new low six months ago, when an alien race threatened to overtake New York and the rest of the world,”_ Jigsaw says, and Phil's gaze sharpens. _“While everyone else focused on the safety of themselves and their loved ones, you took advantage of the chaos and saw a golden opportunity to rid yourself of some debt. After all, the cameras in the lower levels of Stark Tower had been destroyed in the battle.”_

“Oh, that – that is fucking _low_ ,” Clint says.

Phil just sighs and looks tired of this world again.

Wendy's crying, but worse than before; now the sobs are deep, panicked lungfuls of breath as she stares at the needle pit in front of her like it's going to swallow her whole. Jigsaw explains that her antidote is in there, somewhere, and that she has a choice – get it herself, or keep using others to clean up her mess.

She's rasping, clearly somewhere in the middle of a panic attack, and Natasha frowns. It's just a small furrow between her perfectly matched brows, but to Clint, it's like a big fucking neon sign blinking _Danger, Danger, shit's about to hit all kinds of fans_.

“Tasha-” but he doesn't get to finish the sentence. Tony has walked up to Wendy, shaky on his legs from blood loss. His skin is paling gradually, but too fast for Clint's liking.

“Wendy, it's okay,” Tony says, but it's not, it's so fucking far from okay, Tony, and then Wendy grabs Clint's boyfriend by the arm, sharp and fast like a trapped animal, and pushes Tony in the back.

Clint screams in rage as Tony screams in surprise( _Tony never used he drank he's always drunk too much but he never used he NEVER USED_ ), falling head-first into the pit full of dirty, sharp needles, the surprise warping into howls of agonized fear.

~*~


	6. Losing the Game

Tony realizes, between the endless pricks of sharp, biting pain over all his other aches, that he's laughing. He's fucking _laughing_ , lying in a pit full of dirty needles, because this is just too fucking perfect.

The laughing might turn into sobbing at some point. Tony's too far gone to notice. However he moves, wherever he looks, there are dirty needles sticking out of his skin, hanging on by the tip or deeply embedded in him, like he's lying on a fucking _pin cushion_ , and Tony giggles again because it's so very clear that he's going to die here.

He doesn't know why he didn't realize until now.

It feels like hours later – but it can only be seconds – when his hearing kicks back in and he hears the countdown clock over his own sobbing rasps. Wendy has run out of the room, so has Collins. So much for team work. So much for staying away from drugs and using condoms all his life to stay _safe_ , because if he hasn't contracted all kinds of shit by now – it's not going to matter.

He'll be dead in half an hour anyway.

Fuck the antidote. Fuck everything. “Fuck _everything_!” Tony howls at Jigsaw, at Wendy and Collins, at the team who might or might not be watching him right now (if they didn't get bored with the lack of cable and went home to the tower to watch Project Runway instead), at this whole fucked-up game.

_God_ , he hates. And he breaks, maybe, a little.

And after that, well. It's just getting out of the pit again, no antidote in hand, nothing to show for this except forty needles still sticking out of him, bleeding and contaminated (and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, Tony, so don't worry about it).

Tony stumbles out of the still-open door a whole three seconds before it slams shut automatically and locks. And that sharp, metallic sound brings him back to this world. This was Wendy's room, Wendy's test. Tony still has one test to go. That must be where his own antidote waits. He doesn't think about where Collins's antidote is.

_Right. Maybe not give up just yet, then?_ Tony laughs weakly, almost bent in half where he leans against the damp, musty wall. Pulls out the syringes, one by one, doesn't bother to hide the hisses and gasps and choked noises his body drags out of him. Sharp clinks every time a glass vial hits the floor and rolls away.

Rolls.

Wait. Rolls?

Tony straightens a fraction. They don't roll far; only over into a corner of the hallway. Wendy and Collins are nowhere in sight; no doubt gone into the last rooms to get the rest of the antidotes.

Tony shuffles over to the corner where all the syringes have gathered, and brushes them away with one hand. There are red pin-pricks all over it, he notices dimly, bleeding. But just a little. He probably looks like he just got down and dirty with a porcupine.

(Heh. Porcupine.)

A slow, roiling wave of pain and nausea hits him, and he goes down on his knees with a low moan.

(Porcupine needles. Clint would've laughed. Clint would)

There's something... scribbled there, on the floor, Tony realizes. Tiny, tiny arrows.

(Clint would've laughed because he always laughs at Tony's bad jokes; that's what a boyfriend is for, Tony had said once, and Clint had laughed at that too, the idiot. And Steve – well, he probably wouldn't have laughed, because Steve always gets huffy and puffy when Tony makes sex jokes, but he'd at least have _gotten_ it. And Natasha would have rolled her eyes, like Bruce – although maybe Bruce would've smiled, yeah, he would – and then they'd probably have to tell Thor what a porcupine was and god, jesus, Tony just wants to go _home_ )

They point to a small, vertical crack in the wall, in the very corner. It's barely an inch wide, but when he feels around the area with swollen, sore fingers, he finds something metallic and pulls it out.

(Porcupine. Heheh. Prick. Hah. Yeah, Clint is)

A Stark Technology state-of-the-art mini-reader. Where the hell Jigsaw got this, Tony has no idea – until he remembers Collins. That fucker probably gave it to the crazy bastard.

Tony's vision is starting to – not quite _swim_ , but tilt a little, and Tony struggles to press the 'open' button and read what it says.

_Hello, Tony. Congratulations on finding this tablet. It means you have only one more task before your mission here is completed.  
You have shown great resilience and strength today. I am proud to have you as a subject. But, as you are no doubt aware of, sometimes you alone are not enough. Sometimes  winning is not enough. Sometimes winning is indeed losing the game._

“Cryptic motherfucker,” Tony slurs to himself, because hey, guess what, there's nobody else here. Tony's alone. Always were, hey ho.

_If you have caught my previous clues, you know which team mate is left; what last lesson I want you to learn. And it is the most important of all, Tony: it is not about winning. It's about returning._  
Sometimes, to return, you have to lose.  
Time is running out, Tony. You have heart. Now make your choice. 

“ _Fuck_ you and your choices!” Tony screams at the walls and hurls the tablet across the hallway. It doesn't even shatter. That's how much strength is left of the great Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen, and poodles and chihuahuas for some of you in the very front.

Tony only realizes he's crying when he wipes a hand over his eyes to get the blurriness away.

~*~

Clint might – just _might_ – have punched the concrete wall beside the monitors. Just a little. Or maybe enough that it feels like the entire wall shifts a fraction, but it doesn't matter, because the pain of cracking his knuckles against a spot of concrete dulls the roar of rage in Clint's head enough that he can think again. Natasha watches him and the monitor, but says nothing. Phil's eyes are trained on the screens, and Clint doesn't go back to them yet. Can't look at the monitors, at – at Tony. Not yet.

Clint curls his hand into a fist, stares at the bloodied knuckles. The pain is dimming now, to a dull throb, too soon.

Suddenly Clint can hear Wendy screaming in horror and pain; the kind of scream that tends to end in bloodied, garbled gurgles and then fade into nothingness. Which is just what happens. And he knows that sound; has been the cause of it too many times.

“ _And then they were two,_ ” Natasha murmurs in her mother language, and Clint's heart fucking _clenches_.

“Not Tony, Barton,” Phil says before Clint has the time to properly freak out, and Clint stumbles over to the two of them, heart still hammering in his chest. Wendy. Right.

“Barton?” Phil asks and gives him a glance. He doesn't say _talk to me_ , but he might just as well have; Clint feels himself straightening, calming, from that familiar voice.

“Good, I'm good.” He's not, he's really not, but he's not in any immediate danger of killing the computers and that's what Phil's really asking about. Phil leaves him be, just nods and focuses on the screen again, where Tony's managed to get out of the pit and the room, a dozen needles still clinging to his skin. It makes Clint want to puke. 

Natasha shifts closer again; wraps a hand around his elbow, and Clint sinks into the contact. “It wasn't even his own goddamn test, Nat.” His voice wavers.

She squeezes his elbow and doesn't answer. She doesn't have anything to say.

Clint sucks in a breath and turns to Phil. His control's hanging on by a thread and Nat's arm looped around his, and he needs to know what to expect. “What just happened?”

“Agent Collins just killed Wendy,” Phil says, his voice clipped.

“How? Why?”

“Repeated blunt trauma to her brain.” Coulson sounds cool and detached, which is how Clint realizes how furious Phil is. He almost wishes Collins would survive, just to see what Phil would do to him. “It seems there is only one safe, containing a single antidote.”

“Figures,” Clint says and finally dares to look at the monitors. Collins is standing with a small, cylinder-shaped safe in his hands, cursing under his breath as he turns it around and around, looking for a way to open it. Wendy's body lies by his feet, bloody imprints on the concrete wall where he must have repeatedly bashed her head against it. Clint can't even see Wendy's face anymore; it's completely smashed and bloodied, her limbs twisted where she lies. Behind them, there is yet another white wall – this one with a small, round hole where a door handle should have been. Above it, with what looks like red paint, is written: _do you have heart?_ and Clint has a real bad feeling about that room.

“Fuck! I can't – not- not without – _fuck_!” Collins hitches, looking just about ready to cry again. Clint ignores him and his rant, and turns to stare at Tony's screen.

Tony looks – 'terrible' doesn't really cover it, Clint thinks with a sinking heart. _Clint_ probably looks terrible right now, shaky and red-faced and on the verge of hulking out even without any serum in his body. Tony's pale skin is blotched and bloody, dozens upon dozen of red dots marring his skin where needles have pierced it, still sluggishly bleeding from the barb gashes he sustained earlier. His t-shirt's gone, arc reactor proudly on display, and it's a small comfort that _that_ , at least, looks as functional as ever. It glows its soft blue, the hue that used to trigger flashbacks in Clint's mind with Loki, with the Tesseract, with an endless calm and certainty that meant he killed colleagues and friends without giving a single shit about it. But now, that's Tony's color. Clint's pushed Loki out of that color and replaced it with Tony.

_Don't you dare die on me, Stark,_ Clint thinks viciously. _It took too much effort to replace Loki. I can't replace you. I can't. I won't._

Tony throws something too small for Clint to see across the hallway, before he stumbles down the hallway towards the door. On the other side, Collins still stands sobbing as he desperately tries to claw the little metal safe open. Tony can barely keep upright, and he tumbles through the metal door.

Collins looks up. “Tony!” he says . He sounds pleased, honest-to-God _ecstatic_ , and wow if that makes all kinds of warning bells jingle in Clint's head. “I'm so glad you made it!”

“Why?” Tony rasps with a voice that's no longer a voice at all, evidently just as suspicious as Clint is. He tries to straighten and doesn't seem able to.

“Phil?” Clint asks, voice tight. It doesn't even register to him that he just called their handler by his first name, something Clint never does.

Neither does he realize that Phil doesn't mention it. “Natasha,” he says quietly, and she straightens.

It seems like the world grinds to a halt, for one moment, two, three. Then agent Collins swings both his fists and smashes them into the side of Tony's face, who goes down without so much as a cry of pain.

“Barton,” Natasha says before Clint's mind fully registers what's going on. Her voice is soft as velvet and silk threads when she punches Clint in the face.

~*~

Tony knows he blacks out for a minute or two, because when he manages to blink one eye open, he's lying on the floor, his mouth and nose is caked with blood, and Collins is holding his arc reactor in one grubby, bloody palm.

For some reason, that's just – it, isn't it? It's the last thing Tony had left. Jigsaw's taken everything else, and now Collins has taken Tony's heart.

“How the fuck do I – put – it – _in_!” Collins snaps, and that's when it occurs to Tony that although his reactor is in Collins' hand, there's something else stuffed halfway into Tony's body. Something that doesn't belong there.

One of his eyes has swollen completely shut, and his other isn't working too great right now either, so Tony can't see what it is that Collins is forcing into his body. It hurts, Tony thinks, but he doesn't really notice. _Everything_ hurts, not to mention his skull, which he's pretty sure has split into several neat pieces. It hurts so much that Tony barely registers the early signs of cardiac arrest, now that his heart has been ripped out of its socket.

_Just as well_ , he thinks, dimly. _Apparently I had to lose anyway. Thanks a bunch, Jigsaw. I hope you burn._

Collins cries out in delight when Tony feels something slot into place inside his chest, and then Collins pulls out the antidote. The last antidote.

So that was the secret to opening the safe. Neat. Fucking... neat.

~*~

“ _You're doing good_ ,” Natasha says in Russian. She barely sounds breathless, but her voice is still tight. “ _I'm proud of you._ ”

Clint just breathes into the dusty concrete floor and doesn't fight. Natasha's knee is sharp where it's pressed between his shoulder blades, and his arm is pulled and twisted _just_ tight enough behind his back that a shard of panic is fighting its way through the thick, red cloud of _NEED TO HURT_ that's blocking all other thoughts from Clint's brain. He can't hear anything from the speakers; he doesn't know if Tony's still alive.

“ _Breathe_ ,” Natasha instructs him, and doesn't let up.

He's grateful.

“Captain,” comes Phil's quiet, resigned voice from the other side of his room, and Clint faintly hears Steve and Thor enter.

“What's going – Natasha?” Steve stutters.

“Barton's under control,” Phil assures in his best _don't ask_ voice, and then footsteps approach Clint and the monitors. His arm and back are really starting to hurt, and Clint sucks in deep lungfuls of breath, willing the pain to break the burning hatred into smaller, more manageable pieces. _Come on, Tony. You've managed this far. You can get back up._ Even though Clint knows he can't. Tony's too hurt, too weak, too gone. If he's not dead already, there's no way he'll get the last antidote now. The options are down to 1) die quickly, or 2) die slowly.

“Tony's at the last task,” Natasha says, her strong fingers digging into the flesh of Clint's underarm. He loves Natasha, he really fucking does.

“Oh,” Steve says, quiet. 

“Tell us: how is Anthony faring?” Thor asks. He sounds quiet, for him.

“The situation is... critical,” Phil admits.

“What – no,” Steve chokes out.

Clint roars at everything and nothing. A glob of saliva drips onto the floor, and somewhere in the middle, his roar breaks off into a sob.

“That's it,” Natasha says, soft now. So soft. She murmurs the equivalent in Russian and French and Arabic too, making absolutely sure Clint understands her.

It wouldn't be the first time he's been too gone to understand English.

“Mother of mercy,” Steve says – presumably at something on the screen. 

A voice in the back of Clint's mind – one that changes names all the time ( _Loki, Barney, Jigsaw, Loki, Stringshot, Fury, The Swordsman, Barney, Loki_ ) laughs, clear as crystal. It's only after a moment or two that he realizes the sound isn't only in his head; that agent Collins is laughing too, giddy with joy and relief.

“He has stolen Anthony's heart,” Thor says, his voice quivering with furious sadness.

_You have heart._

_You have heart._

Clint's test. He's so fucking honored.

“Sshh,” Natasha says. “ _Breathe_.” Clint knows she's saying it as much to him as to Tony.

~*~

Collins injects himself with the antidote immediately, movements quick but sure, and tosses away the empty syringe. Then he scrambles to his feet and runes to the final door. Tony can't even roll over, much less get up – Collins probably thinks he's dead already, which is more than a fair guesstimation – but he follows the agent with his one semi-good eye while he gasps weakly for air.

It's not so much a door as a long, thin, vertical crack in the bare wall without a door knob. In its stead – in the middle of the door – is a hole; perfectly round and looking newer than anything else Tony has seen in this hellish labyrinth. Above it, someone – Jigsaw – has written in red paint: _Do you have heart?_

Tony's grip on consciousness slips and wavers, and he recalls a conversation with Clint a couple of months ago; being under Loki's thrall, being forced to reveal every secret about the people he loved, and used as a ruthless tool in Loki's fucked-up mind games. Even as crazy as Jigsaw is, Tony thinks, the parallels are striking. Jigsaw's got a point.

He'd laugh if he could. He can't.

Tony dimly notices how Collins pushes his stolen arc reactor into the hole in the door. The reactor lights up, a whirring sound comes from inside the wall, and Collins laughs in delight as the door clicks open. Then he coughs. And coughs again.

“What the,” Collins croaks, but the next word dissolves into another fit of coughs, and even from where Tony's lying, with his one lousy eye, he can see the red spray Collins' cough spreads on the wall. “No – help!” Collins gasps, scrabbles at his throat, and his coughs dissolve into bloody retches. Finally he sinks to the floor, still. It takes a while for Tony's mind to connect the dots. 

_Sometimes winning is losing the game._

Right. Hilarious.

Tony closes his eyes and waits for his other heart to give out, but the world doesn't stay quiet. The door makes more whirring noises, and then – voices? Wait, that doesn't make sense. That doesn't make sense at all.

Definitely dying.

“Tony, Tony – jesus, you did it, don't you fucking _dare_ to die now when you fucking _did it_ -”

Hey. Clint's voice. Tony smiles into the oblivion. “Y'd laugh,” he says to the voice his fried brain's cooked up.

“What – laugh? Tony, _please_ -”

“ 'm a porc'p'ne,” Tony says and lets go.

As last words go, he figures, they're not too shabby.

~*~

Natasha lets him go as if scalded and Clint staggers to his feet, limbs aching. On the monitors they see Collins dying, no doubt a fast-working poison – poison from the antidote? – and hear the whirring of the opening mechanism through the speakers. But not just through the speakers.

The sound's coming from nearby, too.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Clint chokes out when the wall to their left – the same wall Clint punched not ten minutes ago – swings open to reveal a brightly lit room. Clint can see Collins' slumped, bloody form right inside, and further in – further in –

He's running before Phil can stop him, doesn't give any shits about the supposed nerve gas in the air or the possibility of Collins being contaminated; doesn't give a shit about _anything_ , because Tony's _right there_ and fuck, fuck, Clint is so thankful that they all listened to Phil and Natasha and didn't move because they were _right_ , this was all part of Jigsaw's plan, and now, now comes their part. The aftermath.

Clint falls to his knees beside Tony's limp, dying body.

~*~


	7. Going Home

They had to leave the arc reactor. It was part of the door mechanism; if they'd tried to remove it, they would all have been locked inside. In the end Thor had taken Tony, because with his hammer he could bring them both back to Stark Tower faster than anyone else could. Bruce had been waiting; Phil had called him for a heads-up and implored that Bruce had to get the mini-safe out of Tony's chest and find another reactor before he could Hulk out. When the rest of the Avengers met with Thor later, in Medical on the Helicarrier, he told them that this was exactly what Bruce had done: removed the foreign object from Tony's chest cavity and done some simple clean-up, then – with Pepper's help – found a spare reactor and pushed it back into Tony's chest. And subsequently, after alerting SHIELD, he'd turned bright green and smashed three floors of the Tower.

Tony had still died.

That's what keeps Clint up, even now, days later. Tony had died. For three and a half minutes, Tony had been – gone. It doesn't matter that he's breathing now, hooked up to a million tubes and machines in Medical, his swelling gradually receding and doctors taking all kinds of tests to check if the dirty needles got any shit into Tony's system. They won't know for some time; not for most of the serious stuff.

Clint still can't sleep. Because after everything, after all that Jigsaw made Tony go through – Tony was killed.

The nurses have long ago given up trying to drive Clint out of here. He stays; curled up in a chair by Tony's side, standing guard by the door, or perching in the window, glancing down and down and down and imagining himself as a soaring bird. Clint stays.

Tony still hasn't woken up. 'Trauma', they say. They also say he could wake up at any minute, but he's not. He's – _not_. And Clint is so goddamn scared. It makes him want to laugh, but Clint's fucking _petrified_ , because he saw Tony the moment that Collins pulled a Loki on him. The moment Collins _broke_ him.

_Have you ever had someone take your heart and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in?_

Clint heaves against the roiling nausea that nearly overcomes him for a moment – that comes every time he hears himself twist those words he said to Tasha, six months ago. Every time he imagines those words in Tony's voice.

The doors slide open and the favorite person in Clint's life walks in. He loves Tony, he really does – but Clint and Natasha are parts of a whole. (Except... except he and Tony are too, aren't they? Why else would it feel like a third of Clint is MIA?)

“Eat,” she says and hands him a wrapped sandwich, and her tone brooks no argument. He chews and swallows without tasting anything, and she leaves him to it. She walks up to Tony instead and checks him over with laser-sharp eyes.

“Come on, Stark, wake up,” she says in a voice that's too close to gentle for Clint to handle right now. He shoves away the half-eaten remains of his sandwich. “Don't make me sneak into your lab and spray-paint dicks on your Iron Man suits.”

Clint loves Natasha. So, so much.

~*~

“Clint, you need to sleep.”

“I am sleeping,” Clint mumbles into the soft cotton, and doesn't bother to lift his head. Everything's sharp and heavy, the way that signals more than three days with only a couple hours of sleep, but Clint's arguing with Phil anyway because he's not leaving, okay? He's not leaving.

Tony's hand is sweaty and chilled where Clint's gripped it for hours, tried to give some warmth and failed miserably. He's just... failing. Clint presses his face deeper into the mattress and hears Phil sigh.

“Fuck off, sir,” Clint says to the sheets.

“Mh,” comes a quiet, soft – lost? – sound. Clint jolts upright so fast his head spins.

Phil steps into the room. “Mister Stark?” he asks, then: “Tony?”

Tony's eyes flicker, which is more than Clint's gotten these last six and a half days. Clint's heart tries to claw its way out of his throat.

“Tony, hey,” he says, though it comes out as a rasp, and squeezes Tony's hand. Gently, just enough that he should feel it.

Tony flinches, and Clint lets go. Shit, he must have hurt him; stupid fucking – “mmuh,” Tony manages, and his eyelids flutter with purpose now.

Clint rises to his feet and puts his hand on Tony's cheek instead. “C'mon,” he mumbles. “C'mon, you lazy asshole, open your eyes.”

And sometimes – rare times – Tony actually does what people tell him to do. His eyes are drugged to hell and back, and dull when they settle on Clint's for a moment, but they do settle.

“Mmmh,” Tony says, but it's not inquisitive now, it's a little higher, a little sharper. More afraid than questioning which shit, shit. No.

“Tony, it's me. It's _Clint_. You're okay, you're in Medical – come on, look at me, I know you can,” Clint mutters and tries to catch his eyes.

Tony hitches a breath that's too much like a sob, and Phil – Phil puts his hand on Tony's shoulder. “Tony. You're safe. It's okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Nnmm,” Tony says, but he's not struggling harder, and when Clint rubs his thumb against one of the bandage patches on Tony's face, the eyes flicker hesitantly towards him again.

“Yeah, that's it,” Clint murmurs and leans closer. Tony's eyes are swimming, but he makes another quiet noise and frowns. His hand twitches where it lies, still, by his side.

“It's Clint,” Clint whispers and leans forward enough to press a kiss to Tony's forehead, feels – hears – Tony's stuttered exhale.

“Gllnnnn,” Tony says around the tubes in his mouth and throat.

“Yeah, that's right. Clint. Go back to sleep, Tony – it's okay. You did it. You're safe.” And Clint stays where he is, nose pressed against Tony's lifeless curls, muttering empty reassurances into the feverish skin as Tony allows the drugs to drag him back under.

Phil stays where he is, beside the bed, looking after them – one hand safely on Tony's shoulder, grounding Clint as well. “I'll tell the team,” he says to Clint. “Get them to come here one by one.”

Come to think of it, Clint loves Phil too.

~*~

The doctors remove the tubes from Tony's throat while he's still under. Clint perches in the window sill, watches them with the sharp gaze that earned him his codename. He's growing stir-crazy in here, with nothing to do and nothing to shoot at, but he doesn't leave. Barely leaves to take a piss when he needs to; Tasha and Phil and Steve bring him food, because they all know Clint won't remember to eat if he's not prompted.

“You're a kid, you know that?” Natasha says one day, and what he hears is _he's okay, Clint. You're both okay. Let your guard down a little._

He doesn't. But he doesn't tell her to fuck off either. (He'd get his balls cut off for that anyway.)

Tony drifts; comes to every now and then, stays lucid for a few minutes, disappears again. The lucid periods gradually become longer, though, and more frequent. Clint still doesn't leave the room; their shared bed in Stark Tower hasn't been slept in for two weeks, and Clint's back had been giving him all kinds of hell until Phil overrode protocols and put another hospital bed in Tony's room.

Clint hates hospital beds. But he likes a working back, so he'd pushed the two beds together and slept with Tony's hand between his own.

“Thought you were a hallucination,” is the first full sentence Tony says, and it's twelve days after the incident – what Clint has dubbed as That Day in his mind. That Day number two, really.

“I know,” Clint says. He lies on his side, watches Tony's chest rise and fall without any mechanical help (apart from his blue-glowing heart), while Tony stares at the floor with half-lidded eyes. He's off the heavy drugs now, but he still sleeps more often than not.

Tony turns his head to the side, so he can stare at Clint. He swallows. “This – this isn't,” he says in a low, sad voice and lifts his other hand to rest on his backup-reactor.

Clint sighs. “No. We couldn't – not without... it would've been a trap.”

“Figured,” Tony says and shifts a little. He flinches when it jostles his stitches. “Pepper?”

“Yeah.”

He nods and looks relieved at that. Pepper's the only person who can access Tony's back-up reactors, Clint has learned; she, and Jarvis via an override code if he knows his master's life is in immediate danger. It's something Tony fixed after Stane. Not even Phil or Clint can get to Tony's heart. It doesn't hurt, not really – Clint's been fucked over enough times to know the feeling. There are things he only trusts with Nat, no matter how sure he is of Tony and Phil.

Clint moves his hand and reaches for Tony's.

Tony gives a full-body flinch and scoots backwards, his breath hitching and eyes widened in pure fear. Both his hands flatten protectively over the reactor, seemingly out of instinct.

Clint quashes the hurt and surprise he feels. “Sorry, I didn't mean – sorry. I wasn't.”

Tony gradually relaxes. “No, I'm – I didn't mean, it was just – I don't know why I...” he lets out a quiet, frustrated noise and it fucking breaks Clint's heart.

“I know, it's cool. Just instinct. I get it.” And they both know he does.

They also know that it doesn't help, not even a little. But they don't say anything about that.

~*~

He comes back from a trip down to the cafeteria to find a doctor in Tony's room. She's speaking to him in hushed tones, and she stops as soon as Clint enters – all he hears before she glances at him is “chance of chronic infection”.

Clint shuffles where he stands, because all the signs he can read in both the doctor's and Tony's bodies scream _you are interrupting_ , and though he hates to do that he also really wants to know what's going on. “Doc?”

She turns back to Tony, whose face isn't the blank mask it wants to be. Clint can see how scared he is. “Clint,” he says in a raspy voice. “Could you just – come back in five?”

That doesn't hurt either. It doesn't. This is medical, it's personal – Clint isn't even Tony's medical proxy, Pepper is. If anyone should be here for whatever news the doc's giving ( _it's not good, not with the way Tony looks_ ), it'd be her. “Sure,” he says, and hears how hollow he sounds. “Be back in a few.”

He ends up pacing back and forth in the hallway just outside, telling himself he's not trying to catch snippets of the conversation inside. He doesn't, at any rate – his ears have never been as good as his eyes, so he's still at a loss about the conversation when the doctor walks out of Tony's room.

“Mister Stark is resting,” she says and meets his eyes head-on. “I suggest you come back later.”

“He doesn't want me in there?” Clint asks, because that's what _he_ gathered from her words.

“Please come back later, Agent Barton,” she says again and doesn't give him anymore to go on. She doesn't leave either, which means that he actually has to do what she says. He doesn't slink off. Really. He doesn't.

(What he does is sneak right back in twenty minutes later, once he's sure that the harpy doctor is gone.)

He makes his shoes squeak, so he won't startle Tony. Tony lies on his side, back facing the door, shoulders tight as a coiled spring, so it's clear he isn't asleep.

A part of Clint wants to calculate the risks of all the serious complications that could've happened with Tony because of this whole thing, but he only goes so far as to think _his heart_ before he has to shut down that train of thought completely. “Tony?”

He doesn't answer. When Clint walks around the bed to look at him, Tony is scrunching his eyes shut. They're red-rimmed and there are still tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Shit, what'd they- can you tell me? Do you want to?” Clint hates that he sounds like a puppy begging for scraps, but Tony is _crying_ and Clint is getting nauseated with all the possible diseases that he could have.

Tony opens his eyes. He doesn't look at Clint's face, only his outstretched hand. Clint puts it near his hand, close enough to grab, which Tony does. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, in fact, like he's taking advantage of an opportunity that'll be gone soon. It doesn't exactly help Clint's erratic heartbeat.

“Tony...”

“Needles,” Tony chokes out and Clint goes cold. “They weren't clean.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then, when his whole body starts to tingle unpleasantly: “can I, do you want me to-”

Tony doesn't say a word, but he scoots backwards a bit, and that's all Clint needs. He climbs onto the bed, careful of the wires that are still attached to Tony, and lies down next to him. Tony's body feels infinitely more fragile when Clint draws it in, and to their shared relief, Tony doesn't flinch away from the warmth. Just presses into it and hides his face against Clint's sweater.

He's already thinking of contingency plans, of long-term medication. If it's HIV, there are medications these days, he could practically live a normal life, this is _fine_ \- “tell me,” he whispers into Tony's sweaty curls.

For a moment, he tenses, his heart rate picking up enough for Clint to feel it. Then Tony leans back a fraction – not enough to look at Clint's face, but enough that his words are crystal clear. “Hepatitis C. Positive for- yeah.”

Clint holds him close and goes through back-up plans in his head; remembers his scream of rage when he watched Tony fall into the pit of syringes. Tears prickle behind his eyelids. “It's fine, we'll deal with that,” he murmurs. “We're the Avengers, remember? No puny little virus ever got us down.”

Tony doesn't say a word. Clint doesn't stop holding him.

~*~

“It's not possible to discern via these tests whether it is acute or chronic,” the nurse explains calmly, though she seems to keep an extra eye on Clint. He sits at the end of the bed, now, one hand curled loosely around Tony's blanket-covered ankle. Tony himself sits upright and fidgets with one of his wires. His eyes are far away.

“When will I know?” Tony asks. His voice is drone-like and his eyes don't shift, but he's clearly paying attention, so Clint figures he's in the special place inside his head where he can mentally fix machines. Maybe he thinks he can – will have to – fix himself too, this time.

“Acute hepatitis can, in many cases, be spontaneously dissolved,” the nurse explains. “We will set you up with medication, and you will come back for testing every two weeks. If the RNA strand is still present after three months, chances are high that it is chronic. Either way, it will have been discovered early, and that is always a good thing.” She smiles.

“So basically,” Tony says dully, “you're telling me to wait and see.”

“Unfortunately, yes, Mister Stark.”

Tony lies back down and curls up. His ankle slips out of Clint's grasp and Clint doesn't chase it; knows how wary Tony is with close contact now.

The nurse has kind eyes, but a no-nonsense tone when she describes the medication process to Tony. “As for any sexual contact,” she says and Tony bodily flinches, “if you are in a monogamous relationship, using condoms is recommended, though not necessary. The chances of risking infection are still controversial to this day, though sexual practice that involve higher levels of trauma to-”

“Just say 'anal sex',” Tony says in his most tired voice.

The nurse barely pauses. “-anal sex does provide a minimal risk. Sharing saliva is not a risk, though sharing personal items such as razors and toothbrushes is not recommended, since they can be contaminated with blood.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “It is not transmitted through water, food, cooking utensils, or physical contact.”

Tony doesn't acknowledge the end of her little speech; Clint nods shortly.

“I'm done now,” she says and gives Tony a sad smile. “I'll leave you two alone. If you have any questions, any at all, just contact me or any of the other nurses. Okay, Mister Stark?”

Tony nods once. The nurse sends Clint another smile and leaves them. The silence stretches.

“I wanna go home,” Tony whispers.

Clint smiles at the wall. It hurts his face. “Gimme ten minutes.”

~*~


	8. When You Try Your Best

“You good?” Clint says.

Tony nods, but Clint keeps a hand on his boyfriend's elbow anyway as they make their way into the Tower, walking slowly, steadily, carefully. They reach the elevator and Tony leans back against the wall, letting out a soft, long exhale.

“You okay?”

“Peachy.” It's rough, but the closest Clint has heard of Tony Stark for three weeks, so he'll take it and be grateful.

The rest of the Avengers are in the common area, but Clint and Tony bypass it for now. Clint knows Tony feels guilty about that, but he wears out easily and it's the first time he's back here since That Day. Clint's grateful Tony even wants _him_ to be here.

“May I say, Sir, that it is a great pleasure to see you,” a familiar voice comes from nowhere, and Tony's face actually cracks into the semblance of a smile.

“J, you charmer. You're only saying that to make me feel better.”

“Quite, Sir,” JARVIS replies, and sounds relieved. Clint smiles at the ceiling.

“You hungry?” It's a stupid question, and he's not surprised when Tony shakes his head. Aside from everything else, the nurse told them that loss of appetite were among the most common symptoms of Hepatitis C – alongside fatigue, nausea, muscle pains and weight loss. Pretty much anything that could also be attributed to Tony's current mind-space.

They walk by the kitchen, and the small living room of the apartment they'd only shared for a month before this whole clusterfuck went down. Clint hasn't had the “if you need space, I'm fine with moving back to my own floor for now” talk yet, but he thinks today might be that day.

Tony's dim eyes trace his familiar bedroom; the lush, red curtains shutting the afternoon sun out; the lusher, golden-colored carpet; the huge bed that takes up most of the room and could probably fit all six of the Avengers if need be.

“It's the same,” Tony says, dumbly.

Clint frowns and wonders what Tony's referring to, what he's supposed to answer.

“You didn't – sleep here?” Tony asks, looking a little lost.

“Nope. Slept in the hospital.”

“But – every night?”

“Yup.” Clint steps closer, their sides line up. Tony's face is a mix of emotions, too many for Clint to pick out in the span of a second, but then henods and shuffles forward towards the bed.

Clint helps Tony dress down to his t-shirt and boxers. He's getting better, but each of the puncture wounds after the barbs (seventeen, the doc told Clint, fucking _seventeen small stab wounds_ ) needed stitches and they're easily jostled, so Tony shouldn't lift his arms above his head too much and all that shit.

Tony sits at the end of the bed, stares at his naked feet as they sink into the deep, soft carpet. But when Clint tries to help him out of his t-shirt, Tony sucks in a breath and shakes his head.

“No, don't – no, please,” Tony says, somehow urgent and resigned at once. Like he expects Clint to – what? Ignore him and rip the t-shirt off?

Fuck that noise. “Hey, it's cool,” he says and kneels on the floor in front of him. “Sleep in your tee, it's all fine.” He offers Tony a stiff smile.

Tony doesn't smile back, but he lets his head fall down to his chest, like a nod that gave up halfway.

“Okay, let's let you get some sleep.” He tucks Tony in, like he's a sick kid, and Tony curls up on his side with a grimace as he rests on some of his bandages.

“I'll be in my room if you need me,” Clint says and drags his hand through Tony's hair – and Tony pushes himself up on one elbow, fear flickering across his pallid features.

“What?”

“I'm-” Clint pauses at Tony's look. “I mean,” he rephrases and chooses his words carefully, “that I can sleep in my own room tonight, if you'd rather sleep alone.”

Tony's eyes flicker around the room again, like he's never been here before, and then settles on a random spot on his navy-colored sheets. He doesn't say a word.

Clint pulls his hand back. “Tony, do you want me to stay? I don't mind. I really don't.” Truth be told, the thought of leaving Tony alone fills Clint with a wave of panic, but Tony's face floods with relief for a moment before it shuts down into careful neutrality, and that does it.

“Okay, cool.” He wrings off his own sweaty clothes and pushes them into a corner; resolves to deal with everything in the morning, or possibly when he wakes up sometime tonight from one of his run-of-the-mill nightmares. He leaves his boxer-briefs and t-shirt on for now. Clint slips in on the other side of the bed, and settles somewhere on the middle so he won't crowd Tony.

Tony doesn't seem to have that problem. He turns over to his other side with effort, grunts with discomfort, and manages to clumsily scoot closer to Clint. Clint gets it halfway – that Tony really, really doesn't want space right now – so he reaches out and pulls his boyfriend as close as he can without jostling any stitches.

It takes a while for the tension to bleed out of Tony's muscles, but eventually he settles with his head pressed into the crook of Clint's throat, Clint's arm slung around his waist, keeping him close and safe.

Clint revels in the feel of Tony's breathing, living body against him; the smell of hospital soap and sweat; the soft snores Clint listens to for over an hour before his mind allows him to sleep.

_A sharp tug on his arm, and Clint is spun around. Cold, sharp **silence** presses against his chest. Loki's smile is inches from his face._

_“You have heart.”_

_Loki's hand plunges into Clint's chest, twists and pulls back out. Clint goes to his knees. The bloodied, glowing arc reactor in Loki's hand flickers and dies._

Clint's body doesn't move. He just blinks his eyes open, a flicker of familiar, _wrong_ blue in the corners of his vision.

He dislodges himself from Tony, who's still asleep, and pads out into the kitchen. He chugs down a couple of glasses of tap water, because it's not worth getting drunk on Tony's booze. Too nice, too expensive. Too... Tony.

There's sharp, short cry from the bedroom.

_Tony_.

Clint drops the glass into the sink, dimly grateful when it makes a tumbling sound rather than a shattering one, and runs back into the bedroom. Tony's no longer in the bed; instead he's curled into a ball in the corner, squeezed in between the closet and the wall, eyes wide and hands curled protectively in front of his arc reactor.

_Fuck everything, Barton. Fuck you._ “Tony! Tony, hey. Look at me.”

“You're – you weren't,” Tony gasps through what must be pain, and doesn't move. Clint's heart sinks. If only he hasn't torn his stitches.

“I'm sorry, I was thirsty – I'm here, it's all good, we're in your bedroom. You're home. Okay?” Clint moves forward slowly, because he knows what it's like to feel like a trapped animal and he can't risk Tony pulling any more stitches by attacking him.

But Tony slumps at Clint's admission – or maybe apology – and worms himself out of his uncomfortable-looking hiding place. “Sorry,” Tony says quietly. “I'm just – it's fucking stupid, I just.”

“It's fine, I shouldn't have left,” Clint says and helps his boyfriend back under the covers. Tony bites back a grunt, and – shit, Clint can't help but worry. “Tony – will you let me check you over? I want to make sure you didn't pull any stitches.”

“Didn't,” Tony says and doesn't meet his gaze.

He doesn't move. He's not going anywhere _near_ Tony's body without explicit permission – that's the least Tony deserves.

Moments pass in silence, maybe even a full minute. Then Tony slumps a little more against the sheets and nods, just once.

“Thank you,” Clint murmurs and pulls down the covers, locates each and every one of Tony's minor bandages. He doesn't open them; he knows more than enough about popping stitches to be able to feel it through the thin gauze. Tony hisses a couple of times, but nothing more, and finally Clint pushes up the t-shirt. Tony's breathing grows shallow, but he doesn't say a word. His heart glows, as healthy and blue as ever, and Clint wants to put his palm over it to feel it hum against him, let the reassurance wash over him that yeah, Tony's still here. They're both still here.

He doesn't. Just checks the four last bandages before he pulls the flimsy material back down and gives his boyfriend another stiff smile. “All good.”

Tony nods and curls up on his side.

“Sorry, just needed to make sure,” Clint says and wraps around Tony's form again. He seems so much... smaller, now. He hasn't lost that much weight, not considering, but he feels strangely frail and breakable under Clint's hands. Like stone melted into glass. 

“Mm,” Tony says, something between an agreement and a dismissal. It takes longer for him to fall asleep this time, and while one of his hands stay clenched and protective above his reactor, the other is fisted in Clint's t-shirt. Making sure he doesn't go anywhere.

Clint kisses Tony's sunken cheeks and tries to ignore his own nightmare images.

~*

Bruce is standing outside the door, smiling hesitantly at them both. “Uh, hi.”

“Hey,” Clint says when it takes Tony a little too long to answer. “What's up, doc?”

“We, I just, I made dinner,” Bruce says and points at nothing in particular behind him. “You're welcome to join, if you will – or, or I could go get some for you to eat in your room, if you prefer.” He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and makes himself look small and unassuming – an art he's perfected even more than Phil.

Tony doesn't lean against Clint, but their sides are touching and Clint knows that's a comfort. He looks over at his boyfriend, but doesn't say anything.

“Is everyone there?” Tony says, and his voice sounds so small.

“Well, it's just me and Steve right now, but.” Bruce shrugs. “The rest might join at some point.”

Tony stands still, doesn't acknowledge that for a moment. He just stares through Bruce, in another place like he is most of the time now, his hands swallowed by the long sleeves of his sweatshirt.

Then: “Sure. Yeah, that sounds...” he doesn't finish, but Bruce doesn't seem to need more than that.

“Great. It's finished now, but come up when you like.”

After he leaves, Tony slumps against the door.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just –” Tony huffs a tired laugh. “People. I haven't really... seen the team yet.”

“They won't give you a hard time,” Clint says.

“I know. I just – I might. Give me a hard time.”

Clint reaches out – slowly – and puts his hand on Tony's shoulder. Even through the sweatshirt, it feels chilled. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. That seems to work, with them.

Tony leans into it, and nods. “Okay. Let's do this.”

“That's more like it,” Clint murmurs, and they walk up together.

Bruce, Steve and Natasha are in the kitchen on the shared level. Natasha sits on top of the dishwasher machine, legs folded beneath her, with a bowl of soup. Steve and Bruce sit by the kitchen table, each with their own bowls, and visibly light up when Clint and Tony walk in.

“Hey, guys!” Steve says, then realizes how eager he must sound and cleans his throat. “There's plenty more Pap- uh, Bruce?”

“Pappu Charu,” Bruce says mildly and nods at the big bowl on the counter. “Lentil soup. It's very mild.”

“Sounds good,” Clint says and gets two bowls. Tony sits down, after looking around for a bit. He nods his thanks when Clint puts a bowl down in front of him. There's a silence that isn't tense, necessarily, but it's certainly uncomfortable. Tony keeps his head down and eats his soup slowly. Clint makes more slurping sounds than usual just to fill up the silence a bit. He can feel Natasha's eyes on him, but that's a soothing feeling, not a discomforting one.

“We're, uh, we're watching a movie later,” Steve says eventually, and his eyes flicker between. “I've sorta been going through the Disney Classics, those animated movies. I watched 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' with Bucky, before the war, but. Well, I never got any further than that.” He drains his bowl and goes back to refill it. “Anyway, we're on... what is it, Natasha?”

“Number eighteen,” she says promptly, putting down her own bowl. “'One Hundred and One Dalmatians'.”

“It's about dogs,” Steve says, and sounds so heartbreakingly happy. (And young. Much younger than any of his teammates.)

“You're welcome to join us,” Bruce adds. He takes Natasha's bowl from her and rinses them off in the sink, before he puts them into the dishwasher.

Clint notices that Tony's fingers tighten around his spoon, and the lines in his face become more pronounced. “Maybe... maybe another time,” Tony says quietly.

“Sure,” Steve says, and smiles. And that's all they say about that.

~*~

'Just a fucking routine check-up' his ass.

Clint is going to fucking _shoot somebody_. “Who?!” he bellows as soon at Medical's white, bland walls, and nurses and doctors jump in the air at his voice. “Who the _fuck_ thought it would be a good idea to give Stark an impromptu needle-play session without alerting me or Agent Coulson?!”

Nobody answers. Fourteen pairs of frightened bunny-eyes watch him.

“Who the _fuck_?!” Clint snarls.

“It was just a routine vaccine,” one of the younger, male doctors pipes up from the corner.

Clint doesn't mean to grab for his gun, he really doesn't (okay, maybe a little – just to freak the goddamn intern out a bit) but his hands still at the sharp “Agent!”

He spins around to face Phil, who looks supremely unimpressed by Clint's big dramatic entrance, and wow does Clint give absolutely zero fucks about that right now. “Coulson-”

“Stand _down_ , Agent,” Coulson says, not quite loudly, but loud enough. Clint's mouth claps together out of instinct and instinct alone. “This is not the place. Come with me to Stark's room.”

Clint's hand still hovers above the holster of his Beretta.

“ _Now_ , Specialist Barton.”

Fine. The intern's probably pissing his pants right now anyway.

“I know,” Phil says when they've passed the door into the recovery section of Medical, before Clint has a chance to spout more vitriol at his handler and get kicked out of the Avengers for it. “It's being handled. It won't happen again.”

“Fucking _needles_ , Phil,” Clint spits out, and his hands shake with anger.

Phil sends him a long, strangely soft look. “I know, Clint. But you need to be calm now – not verbally abuse my medical staff.”

“It's technically SHIELD's,” Clint mutters as they open the door to Tony's room, even though he knows Phil is right. Clint shouldn't have left at all – but he was going to punch through a wall and he needed to yell at someone, for Christ's sake. Or maybe for Tony's sake.

“Don't you know?” Phil says, and sounds like his calm and bland self again. “I _am_ SHIELD.” He gives him one of his not-quite smiles and leaves Clint to it.

Clint sighs and walks into his boyfriend's room. It feels like they never left this place, even though Tony's been living at home for a week and a half now. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Tony never used to let him get away with nicknames – but Tony's changed. They all have. And this Tony seems to appreciate Clint's names for him. He seems to relax minutely every time an endearment rolls over Clint's tongue.

Now, he's strapped to a medical bed, drugged to the fucking gills. Clint swallows the bile in his throat and starts unbuckling the straps, doesn't even care if the nurses come and chew him out for it – he reckons that if he puts a bullet in the wall beside their heads, they'll probably leave him alone.

_“You're great in a crisis, Clint,”_ Natasha used to say. _“But you're a mess after.”_ Clint sure as hell isn't arguing.

As soon as Tony's arms and legs are free from the thick leather straps, Clint rubs the sore skin gently. He's got rough, calloused hands, he knows, but Tony needs physical touch these days. Needs it to ground him in the present. He's out now, somewhere between asleep and comatose from the morphine ( _who the fuck gives him morphine for a panic attack I swear to Fury I will kill that incompetent son of a bitch_ ), but his head turns a little towards Clint, even in sleep.

“Yeah, I'm back – I'm here, now. No more needles.” He wasn't here at the time – had been down in the mess to get some soup for Tony, trying to coax him into eating a little more than he does by himself. He's getting pretty lanky and Clint doesn't like the tendency at all, illnesses or not.

He'll hear the full story from Coulson later, how one of the interns had walked in with a needle and assured Tony that it was just a flu shot; all the patients got it here at this time of year, it was just to prevent infection, nothing dangerous. The fucker hadn't even glanced at Tony's report before he walked in, didn't know that a bunch of the miniature prickled scars on Tony's arms, face and _everywhere_ stemmed from having been pushed into a junkie's worst nightmare.

Then, to make matters worse, the intern had alerted the orderlies and a doctor when Tony had panicked, and they'd added another needle to the fun and games and piped Tony's system full of shit.

“Natasha,” Clint grits out, because he didn't hear anything but he still knows she's in the room now.

“I've got it,” Natasha says, voice carefully neutral, and Clint lets out a sharp breath. Good. He doesn't know what she'll do – he doubts it'll leave any lasting physical damage to the intern – but it makes the blood-red haze behind his eyelids pinken somewhat.

She leaves him alone after a few minutes, and the rest of the team come by during the day; Steve and Thor together (like Clint usually sees them these days), Bruce alone. He doesn't say anything, but his green-speckled brown eyes tell Clint everything he needs to know. The doc's on their side. Good.

~*~

“I really hate needles,” Tony whispers the day before they go back home.

“I know, baby. I do too.”

~*~

It's been (another) bad day. Clint knows that Tony's been careful not to stay too long in his workshop; he's not afraid, that's not quite the word, but there's something about the place that seems to remind him of That Day. Clint doesn't know what it is exactly, and Tony won't tell. He ignores Clint whenever he or anyone else raises the question.

Still, he's been down there today, and alone too. Usually Tony prefers someone with him, Bruce sciencing or Steve drawing, or even Natasha reading a book. But today, he'd locked the door and told JARVIS that no one was allowed inside. After his second time in the hospital, Tony's become even more jittery around Clint – like part of him blames Clint for not being there to fend off the fucking nurse with that fucking syringe.

It's not a big deal, Clint knows he's the one to blame for that one. It just – it still stings, that Tony struggles to trust him now. But it's fine. It's cool. Clint just has to try harder, that's all.

Thor and Steve sit in the living room couch, talking quietly between themselves, while Clint tries to finish one of his latest mission reports. To be honest, it was from before That Day, so it's over a month old. Doesn't mean it's easier to fill out, since Clint's thoughts scatter in every possible direction except the useful one. He watches Steve and Thor out of the corner of his eyes; they sit close enough to touch, though they're not, and Thor's voice is – for once – so quiet Clint can't actually hear what he's saying.

Steve sighs and gives Thor a long nod and a sad smile. Clint can't hear his reply either, but he's pretty sure – reading Steve's lips – that the Captain says _thank you, I know you do_.

The TV's on and the sound is low, some music channel that's not MTV because contrary to the name, they barely ever play music videos anymore and Clint never watches it for fear of stumbling over an episode of Jersey Shore. It seems to be in some kind of wallowing hour, because James Blunt sang earlier about a face in a crowded place and not knowing what to do; One Republic followed and whined that it's too late to apologize; and now the last chords of R.E.M. come from Tony's state-of-the-art speakers, claiming that sometimes, everybody hurts. If Clint didn't feel like shit already, these songs would do the job just fine.

Some new angsty song starts up, but Clint doesn't immediately recognize it.

_When you try your best but you don't succeed..._  
When you get what you want, but not what you need...  
When you feel so tired that you can't sleep... 

“Fucking figures,” Clint mutters under his breath and jots down a couple more words on Phil's form. Can't have a wallowing fest without goddamn Coldplay.

_When the tears come streaming down your face...  
When you lose something you can't replace..._

Clint shifts. He's not trying to listen, not really – and neither Thor nor Steve seem to notice the lyrics at all – but some of what Chris Martin's bleating about hits just a little closer to home than Clint likes. He grabs his glass and ignores the slight tremble in his hand; chugs down the water in it like it's booze.

_Lights will guide you home_ , Martin assures him, and Clint grits his teeth. _And ignite your bones, and I will try... to fix you._

He jumps at the sudden, sharp sound of glass breaking, and stares at his hand. It's empty. The glass that had been in his hand a second ago is in pieces on the floor and against the kitchen wall, and droplets of water still cling to the beige wallpaper.

“Clint! What's wrong?” Steve's there in a second, Thor right behind him, and even Bruce pops his head in from the hallway.

“I heard something break?” he says, and phrases it as a polite question.

“He's full of shit,” Clint says, barely aware of what he's saying at all, never mind who he's talking to or about.

“What? Who?” Steve asks, and Bruce comes over to them.

“Chris Martin! He's full of _shit!_ ” Clint yells, and he knows that if he'd had any more glasses nearby, he'd have thrown them too. He's shaking with anger and guilt and misery and he doesn't know where it all comes from, except that this song is a bunch of bullshit and he just- just –

“The lead singer of Coldplay?” Bruce says when the two others look entirely lost, and pushes his glasses further up on his nose. Then he turns to look at the TV screen, where that fucking guy runs down some street and into a stadium.

“Is that... a band?” Steve ventures, and Thor looks between the three other men.

Bruce watches the TV screen. “Is that 'Fix You'?”

“There's nothing to fix!” Clint shouts loud enough for his own ears to throb, and the others flinch. “It's fucking _bullshit!_ There's nothing to fix because he's _not fucking broken_ , it's not _about_ fixing, it's not -” he's gasping, like he's run a mile, and he doesn't know whether he's standing or sitting or falling or what the fuck his body's doing right now, except there's a strong arm holding him up that belongs to Thor and Steve's hand on his back and Bruce is saying something in that soothing tone of his that doesn't make it past the painful white noise in Clint's head and then his knees hit the tile floor with a crack and he doubles over.

“That's it,” Bruce is saying when Clint's ears come back online. “Just breathe, Clint.” There's no other noise. The TV's been turned off at some point, and beside Bruce's voice and Steve and Thor's breathing, there's only the rasp of Clint's own lungs trying to force down air. He might be crying. He honestly has no fucking idea.

“You are one brave warrior, Hawk,” Thor says softly and pulls Clint in until they're practically hugging, and Clint's head spins and he still hears Coldplay's mocking _I WILL TRY TO FIX YOU_ and it just makes him want to _hurt_. Himself, others, doesn't matter. But Thor's grip around him is firm enough that Clint would have to fight his way out of it, and Cap's on his other side, still rubbing his goddamn back like Clint's an upset kid (except nobody did this for Clint when he was a kid), so he's kind of trapped here. It's not an awful feeling.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he rasps, eyes still closed, and feels a fifth hand on the back of his neck.

“It's okay, Clint,” Bruce says, soft and sure. “You're right. Tony's not broken. He's not something we need to fix – and even if he were broken, it wouldn't be your responsibility.”

“He's _not_ ,” Clint spits.

“No, he's not.”

“Anthony Stark is not some fragile _tusseladd_ ,” Thor says, quiet but firm, and though Clint has no idea what that word means, he gets the gist. “He is a warrior worthy of Asgard.” 

“Yeah,” Clint croaks and feels like a fucking piece of worthless shit for just breaking down like this. It's not supposed to be about him; he's not the one who had to go through all of J- all of _those_ tests.

But he stays still for a moment or two anyway, soaks up the reassurance and comfort his teammates are so willing to give him. Bruce murmurs quiet words about Tony and him that Thor nods along to, Steve smiles that heartbreaking smile that means _I'll always have your back, no matter the cost_ , and Clint wonders exactly when they became a proper team – if it was during Tony's tests, or after.

~*~


	9. It Is What It Is

They still get sent out on missions. Natasha's all over the place; there one day, gone the next, as usual. Bruce stays in the tower unless SHIELD requires the Hulk to smash something, and Thor and Steve – sometimes with Clint's help – take care of the worst missions for now.

There's always at least one other person in the Tower with Tony. Pepper's around more often than not, doing paperwork in their common room or in the living room of Clint and Tony's apartment, and JARVIS is told to let the Avengers on duty (Pepper, Rhodey and Coulson have all become honorary Avengers) know whenever Sir seems to be 'having an incident'. The AI is forever loyal to his master, and 'incident' seems a pretty nice, subtle way to describe Tony's panic attacks. Or anxiety attacks. Or those times when somebody says or does something that triggers the whole fucking shebang in Tony's head, and he stays out of commission for nobody-knows-how-long. Clint had freaked the fuck out the first time it'd happened, and he doesn't react any better now, even when it's happened a couple of times.

“Master Clint,” JARVIS says, and he's got the halting, almost wistful tone that tells Clint everything he needs to know.

“Where? What kind? Do you know what caused it?”

“Sir is in his private bathroom. I cannot say for certain, but I believe it may be connected to the water. Sir was in the middle of a bath when his heart rate suddenly accelerated.”

Water? That's strangely unspecific. Clint makes his way through the living room and past their bedroom. The door to their large bathroom is closed. “And you're sure he's not jacking off?”

“Quite,” JARVIS says, with that dry tone he gets when Clint knows he could point out that he isn't _stupid _, but is too polite – or maybe just too British – to say it.__

__“Tony?” Clint knocks on the door, twice, before he opens it. They don't lock their doors here, and even if they did, JARVIS has override control. Tony doesn't answer, but Clint steps into the steamy room anyway and squints._ _

__Tony sits in the large bubble bath, clutching the sides hard enough that his nail beds are completely white. His eyes are shut tight, and his breaths come in sharp, shallow gasps – but as anxiety attacks go, this is far from the worst Clint has seen this last month. Still, JARVIS was right._ _

__“Hey, Tony? You with me, sweetie?” Clint says, makes sure to keep his voice low and level – familiar._ _

__Tony doesn't acknowledge him with anything other than a whimper, still and stiff where he sits, like the bottom of the bath tub could open up and swallow him whole at any given moment._ _

__“Tell me what you need, Tony,” Clint murmurs. He wishes he could just take a look and know what the best course of action is, and sometimes he can, but Clint is no psychic and Tony's brain is a maze full of razor wire and Jigsaw traps now._ _

__Tony shudders out a breath. “'s fine,” he says tightly._ _

__“Nope, nuh-uh. We've been through this. You tell me what I gotta do, but lying's a no-go,” Clint says, light enough that it doesn't feel like an admonishment, but clear enough that Tony knows he's not kidding. “C'mon. Gimme a hint.”_ _

__“I just –” Tony blinks his eyes open, drops of water beading on his eyelashes. “Water,” he grits out. “Head.”_ _

__It takes Clint a moment or two to connect those dots, but he does. He usually always does. _The first task._. “Okay, cool. Got it. Want me to leave you alone? Get in with you?” He doesn't reach out towards him, but he leans his chin on the edge of the white, smooth rim and looks at his boyfriend. “Or I can just sit here. 'ever you want.”_ _

__“I'm not a fucking _baby_ , Clint!” Tony snarls, all hackles all of a sudden. But that's not really a new thing either. Clint ignores the stab of hurt and stays right where he is._ _

__“I know. If you were, I'd be putting a diaper on your whiny ass right now, but we both know that ain't your kink.” Sometimes this makes everything worse, and Clint fully expects a punch in the face, but this time, he bet on the right horse._ _

__Tony's shoulders lose their ramrod quality, and he sighs and looks up through wet lashes. “Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm such a dick.” He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, and now he _does_ look like a little kid, but Clint's never going to tell him that._ _

__“It's cool. You want me to fuck off?” It's a genuine question this time; Tony's clearly back in his head, in the now, and his breathing is calming down. _Somewhere in the ceiling, there's a pleased AI watching this,_ Clint thinks._ _

__“Nah, it's fine. It's – you're free to do whatever.” Which is, Clint has deciphered by now, Tony-speak for _I really don't want to be left alone, but for some reason I feel like I shouldn't want that so I'm gonna revert to manliness instead_._ _

__“Can I join you?” Clint keeps the tone light, and when Tony just nods, he strips off his clothes and gets into the big tub, sliding in on the opposite side of his boyfriend. The water's hot enough that it stings; almost too warm, really, but Clint knows that's how Tony prefers his baths and showers after That Day. Clint feels Tony's feet bump into his own, and he purposefully slides one of his feet up Tony's ankle and back down._ _

__Nothing more than that, though. Nothing higher. They haven't – they've barely kissed since Clint got Tony back from the hospital, and Clint knows Tony is jittery enough around him without clothes on that nothing's bound to happen there for a while longer. It's cool. If sex was the main reason Clint was with Tony, they never would have been dating. It's how they'd started out, after all; as sex for Tony, and sex and therapy for Clint. By now, it's a lot more than that, and Clint finds that he doesn't even miss the sex that much, not on the whole._ _

__He does miss just being close to Tony, though; hear his heartbeat, feel the hum of his arc reactor._ _

__Tony sighs, which is another good sign. It's a nice, deep lungful of breath. The water feels perfect against Clint's skin by now, and Tony's foot presses lightly, intently, against Clint's own._ _

__“I ever say how much I love this fucking bathtub?” Clint says to the ceiling._ _

__Tony huffs a quiet laugh. It's barely there, but it's more than enough to send jolts of happiness and relief through Clint's entire system. “Every time you're in here, Barton.”_ _

__“Mmmm, really should be here more often,” Clint says and yawns, as the steam and water lull him into a more relaxed state than he's been in since – since a long fucking time, actually._ _

__When he blinks his eyes back open, Tony's watching him with a look more open, more unlayered, than is usual these days. “You okay?” Clint says softly, and Tony's gaze flickers._ _

__“Yeah, I just – yeah. I'm fine.” He frowns at the water, at the bubbles and foam that hide their bodies – and Tony's reactor – from view._ _

__“Tony?” Clint murmurs._ _

__Tony is still for another moment, before he moves – slides across the bathtub almost gracefully and crowds Clint's personal space. His hands find Clint's knees under the surface and grabs them, but not tightly. Only as a grounding touch._ _

__It's the first time since That Day that Tony's the one who bridges the physical gap between them, and Clint doesn't try to hide his smile. “Hey.”_ _

__“Hey,” Tony rasps, and if his smile is frail, it's also genuine._ _

__Clint slides one hand around Tony's waist, brushes past one of the clusters of scarring from the razor wire barbs that riddle Tony's front and sides. His boyfriend is naked and smooth-skinned beneath Clint's rough hands, and when Tony doesn't pull away from the contact – does the opposite, in fact, leans forward enough to rest his forehead against Clint's – he dares to skim his other hand up Tony's front. Slow. So slow._ _

__Tony's face tightens and Clint stops immediately. “No, it's,” Tony says, and his voice is as tight as his expression, but his eyes are clear and on Clint's own. “It's fine.”_ _

__Clint doesn't reply, only moves his hand up a few more inches, until he starts to feel the quiet, familiar buzz of the arc reactor. He's not touching it yet, but he's close – closer than Tony has let him since That Day. He stops again, concentrates on his breathing; on Tony's bright, pained eyes and soft mouth; on Tony's hands on his knees, not yet squeezing tightly._ _

__“It's fine,” Tony says again, quieter now, more sure. So Clint slides his hand up until it rests on top of Tony's metal heart, until he feels the pleased hum beneath his palm, just like it's always been; the smooth, scarred skin around it, keeping it tucked close and safe like Clint needs it to be._ _

__Needs Tony to be._ _

__“Hey there,” Clint murmurs, and they both know he's talking to the arc reactor, even if that doesn't make sense. “I've missed you.”_ _

__When Clint kisses Tony, Tony kisses back; not hesitant, but not desperate, either. Just slow, sure, unafraid. It's so wonderful it makes Clint want to cry. Somewhere between kisses he says “I love you”, out of the blue and for the first time, and Tony hitches a breath and nods in return. He doesn't need to say it back; Clint knows._ _

__“Thank you,” Tony whispers against Clint's lips, and Clint smiles._ _

__“It's cool.”_ _

__They'll be okay. They'll be just fine._ _

__“Sir?” JARVIS pipes up. “I apologise for the intrusion, but is time for your medication.”_ _

__Tony's eyes dim. “Yeah, sure.”_ _

__Clint doesn't have anything reassuring to say about that, but he kisses Tony again and hopes that's reassurance enough._ _

____

~*~

“Is he still gone?” Rhodey asks. Worry emanates from him, even as he hands Clint a plate with some scrambled eggs and toast. “That's got to be a new record.”

“Ten more minutes and it will be,” Clint says, and knows he sounds wrecked. He _is_ wrecked. He's sat by Tony's side for close to an hour now, and his boyfriend hasn't moved even once. He doesn't even know what triggered Tony this time. He had been alerted by JARVIS while he was still in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. The TV had been on, and Tony was half-slumped in the couch, staring at nothing. Like a doll.

When he had asked, JARVIS had just said “Sir would probably like to tell you this himself, eventually.”

Clint has eased him down a little, so Tony can rest his head on top of Clint's shoulder, but the contact doesn't seem to help. Tony is still gone, and it's becoming harder to ignore the voice in his mind that tells him this is it, this time Tony's mind is too cracked to pull itself together.

It's bullshit. Tony is the strongest motherfucker Clint knows, and he'll be fine. Eventually.

“Hey, Tones,” Rhodey says and puts his hand on Tony's knee, like they usually do. Thor and Steve are – actually, Clint doesn't know where they are, but presumably somewhere in the Tower. Nat's on a mission, and Pepper's in a meeting. Bruce is in his lab. Phil flits between the Tower and HQ constantly, although he's got his own room in the Tower, and even Fury's been over a couple of times this week.

(“Never thought I'd miss the asshole's yammering,” the director had sighed and looked at Tony, who had been curled up on the couch at the time, shivering. “I'm almost lookin' forward to the day he starts hacking my computer again.” 

Clint had just nodded. )

“C'mon, Tony,” Clint murmurs and shifts his grip; pulls him a fraction closer. “Come back to us. Tell me what it was so we can avoid it in the future.” He sways them back and forth, just a little, like he's rocking a kid to sleep, and Rhodey watches them with infinite sadness and fondness.

“You're a good fit,” he says to Clint. “You know that? And I don't mean only now. Tones told me about you before – before. Wouldn't shut up about you, matter of fact.” And he finishes with a sad, crooked smile. It's rare to see the Colonel smile, so Clint returns it without a thought.

“Thanks. It's all – good. I mean, this isn't... but, you know.” He shrugs. “It is what it is.” He kisses Tony's temple.

Tony twitches.

A wave of relief and sickening hope punches Clint in the stomach. “Hey, babe? You coming back?”

He can feel the muscles in Tony's shoulders and neck ripple, and he twitches again.

“Yeah, you're coming along nicely,” Clint says and lets the flood of relief rush through. They can hear it in his voice, too – how it trembles, just barely. “C'mon, Tony. You're safe. You're home. It's good – everything's good, you're safe. Rhodey and me are here. Okay?” He presses another kiss to his boyfriend's temple.

“That's it, Tones,” Rhodey murmurs and cups Tony's other cheek. “Use those lungs of yours.”

Tony sucks in a breath and moves, straightens so he can slide his sluggish gaze across his living room. That's a good – no, that's a great sign. No flailing, no panic, just exhaustion. It's becoming more and more usual, that Tony is just _tired_ after his episodes, instead of freaked out or even violent.

“Welcome back, Tones,” Rhodey says and smiles, soft and safe. When he lifts his hand, Tony high-fives it weakly.

“I'm sorry,” Tony says when he has determined that he's home and not alone, and slumps against Clint's frame. He grips Clint's sweaty hand and tangles their fingers; Clint squeezes in reply. With his other hand, he grabs Rhodey's hand, and Rhodey sits down next to Tony.

“It's cool, you know that,” Clint says and nuzzles the side of his face. Tony leans into the touch.

“Do you need anything?” Rhodey asks, and Tony shakes his head.

“Just – stay?”

“Of course.” Rhodey puts his hand on Tony and squeezes, once. Tony manages a semblance of a smile.

“You wanna tell me what triggered it?” Clint asks, quiet. Sometimes Tony can't; talking about it alone can trigger another episode. But sometimes, he's alright – or a semblance of it – after, and can explain himself somewhat. Since Tony refuses to see any of SHIELD's shrinks, this is as close to therapy as he comes.

“TV,” Tony croaks now, and slides down until he's curled up in a fetal position on the couch, his head in Clint's lap and his legs curled over Rhodey's. Rhodey reaches over towards the arm rest and pulls down a thick fleece blanket, covers Tony's body with it so he won't get cold.

“Anything in particular?” Clint keeps his voice light, and starts to card his hand through Tony's dark hair. He can feel tension bleed out of Tony's muscles, and is relieved that he's at least of _some_ help here.

“They got him,” Tony says, so, so quiet. Clint freezes.

“What?” Rhodey asks.

“They – Jig- him,” Tony grits out and starts to shiver again. “They got him. Just now. He's dead. It was – they didn't say who'd found him, but it was SHIELD. Gotta be.”

“Phil,” Clint whispers. “Oh, thank _fuck_.” The relief is so strong that it's nearly nauseating; the thought that Jigsaw's gone, he's _dead_ , that none of them will ever have to go through what Tony did, that _Tony_ will never have to go through it again. “He didn't tell me anything. We didn't know, Tony.”

Rhodey nods his assent, paling slightly.

He's so giddy and weightless from his own relief that he doesn't recognize Tony's quickening breaths at first. Not until he feels the thinner body jerk beneath and beside him, and leans down to see big, wet blobs of tears trailing down the side of Tony's face and onto Clint's jeans.

“Oh, Tones,” Rhodey whispers. Clint curls protectively over his boyfriend, strokes his cheek as Tony lets out quiet, desperate, gasping sobs and clings to Clint's thighs. Eventually, Tony rolls onto his other side so he can hide his face in Clint's t-shirt. He doesn't move away from any of them, just stays curled around Clint with a hand clenched in Rhodey's shirt, and cries as freely as he's done since That Day. Clint drags his hand through Tony's hair and hums, but doesn't shush him – he doesn't want Tony to limit himself any more. He needs this.

“You're okay, Tones, you're just fine,” Rhodey whispers as Tony's body quakes. “We're all gonna be okay.”

~*~


	10. Mello(w)tones

Tony's down in the workshop again. He's started spending more time down there alone, now, which Clint is happy about. When he first started going back down there, to tinker with some smaller projects, Clint or Steve or Pepper would usually be with him. Tony would get twitchy if he were alone too long; still does, but he's only been down there for a couple of hours, and Clint knows JARVIS is keeping a wary eye out for signs of distress. So Clint's down on the range, third hour straight, his shoulders starting to ache from where he's been shooting his quiver empty time after time after time. He hasn't gotten as much training in the last few weeks as he'd like, but Clint will never tell Tony that. Clint can fucking prioritize.

He doesn't need to turn around to hear the sound of quiet footsteps, he knows they belong to Phil. “Sir,” he says and sends another arrow fly before he turns around and lets his arms relax. They're not too happy with him right now, but he just rolls his shoulders and the pain subsides into a familiar ache.

“Specialist,” Phil says, with a slight nod.

“Great work, sir. I saw the news – I assume it was you.” They never mention him by name; SHIELD doesn't really exist, after all. Clint suspects there are some fine, boring, normal New Jersey police officers about to get a raise right about now.

“It was a team effort,” Phil says, which pretty much means _yes, it was me._ “Does Tony know?”

“Yeah. He's the one who told me.” It didn't slip any of their minds how 'Stark' became 'Tony' after That Day.

“Ah.” Phil doesn't wince, he never winces, but his face falls just a fraction. “How did he take it?”

“Froze up,” Clint says, still keeping his voice as level and professional as he can. “New record.”

Phil sighs, this time. “I'd hoped – but time was of the essence. I'm sorry I couldn't be here in person to tell him.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, but it's not accusatory and Phil knows it. “It was fine. He was – I wasn't there when it happened, but JARVIS alerted me, so he wasn't, y'know. Alone. He was fine after, he – yeah. He's in his workshop now, if you...” he trails off and gestures awkwardly towards the stairs leading away from the training area and to the elevator. “Did you get any victims out?” Clint asks.

Phil's mouth twitches downwards, nearly imperceptible to anyone who hasn't known the guy for the better part of ten years. “We were too late, unfortunately.”

“But you got – Jigsaw.”

“Yes.”

“That's all I need.” Clint grips his bow tighter. “Least those vics are the last ones. Barring any copycats.”

“Here's to hoping,” Phil says quietly.

They stand in silence for another minute or two. “You want a drink?” Clint asks. “It's on Tony.” He doesn't say that they're trying to get rid of the booze, since Tony doesn't drink anymore. Aside from his other personal reasons, the hepatitis fucks up his liver worse if he's drinking. They never did tell the rest of the team – they're gonna wait until the three months are up. Phil, of course, knows. Natasha too, probably.

“Yes, please,” Phil says with feeling, lets some of his exhaustion show. “I'd love a drink.” They leave the range together.

~*~

“He told me that Tony was his biggest project and his greatest success,” Phil says after the second glass is empty. His tone is as bitter as the scotch they're drinking.

“Jigsaw?” Clint's mouth tastes like ash.

“We all followed his instructions to the letter, what's not to love?” Phil says and circles the rim of his glass with a finger. “Like perfect little puppets we danced.”

Clint huffs a breath that can mean practically anything, but he thinks he agrees. There's a slight condensation stain on the glass counter from his own glass, and he wipes it away meticulously with the sleeve of his shirt. Come to think of it, that's one of Tony's shirts.

“I don't think Tony needs to know,” Phil says, finally. “Unless he asks. It can stay between you, me, and JARVIS.”

“I'm inclined to agree, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS responds, quiet.

“Hear, hear,” Clint says and finishes his glass.

~*~

Natasha tousles his hair as she walks by, as if Clint is some kind of dog. Clint scowls at her. “Training room, ten minutes,” she says without turning and disappears downstairs. She knows that's just as long as it'll take him to finish his breakfast and get changed, and Clint welcomes the opportunity to get his ass kicked.

Clint changes into a pair of training sweats and a SHIELD tee before he jogs downstairs. Bruce is in the workshop with Tony, Thor is nowhere to be seen, and Steve is on the other side of the larger training room, busy abusing Tony's specially-made boxing bags. He nods at Clint when he comes in, before he resumes his earlier task. Clint recognizes one of Steve's bad days; unlike Tony (or Clint, if he's honest), Steve doesn't take his occasional bad mood out on anybody else. Instead he prefers to separate himself from his team, either taking his bike for a trip, walking around this new version of the city he grew up in, or beating heavy-soft objects into rubble.

Both Clint and Natasha start off easy. They don't go easy on each other, not unless one (or both) of them are injured in some way, but they start out slow today; occasional jabs and a lot of circling and footwork. It's not until after a few minutes that the fight escalates to kicks and punches, the two of them as equally matched as they always are, until it finally culminates in a full-on wrestle on the blue mats.

Natasha gets in one good hit right above Clint's eye, one he knows will be visible tomorrow, and in that one second of confusion – his mind reeling with the force of the blow – Natasha has time to flip him over and pin him down on his stomach. Clint hates this position and Natasha knows it. Her knees dig into his sides as she sits on top of him and pins his wrists to the small of his back. “Tasha,” he gets out, though he doesn't ask her to actually let him up – he's way too proud for that.

She ignores him and his wriggling, and Clint hears the jangle of – metal? “The fuck, Nat?” he barks out when he feels thick police cuffs close around both of his wrists.

“Gotcha,” Natasha says, and sounds... fond? What the – Clint starts wriggling and fighting again when she pushes up his t-shirt, baring his back.

“Nat! The fuck are you doing?” He's not worried, not really – this is _Natasha_ and he trusts her with a lot more than his body. But this isn't exactly business as usual, and he's strung-out enough from everything that's been going on that he feels himself tense up properly, breath quickening into sharp punches of air.

“Clint,” she says and leans down to murmur into his ear. “You are a stubborn dick.” Then she kisses his neck and slides her hands up his back.

“What's that got to – ooooaannnghh.” The rest of his sentence is lost in the long, _loud_ groan he emits when Natasha's clever fingers find the first knots of muscle right between his shoulder blades. It _hurts_ , the best kind of hurt, and it's only when Natasha's strong, capable fingers seek out every bump and knot along Clint's spine that he realizes how tense he's been for the last weeks.

“Fuuuuck.” Clint hears Steve chuckle on the other side of the room. “Why couldn't you've jus' asked?” he asks into the mat, as the potent, mingled stench of rubber and sweat fills his nostrils.

“Clint.” Fingertips dig under his shoulder blade; press, massage.

“Yeah, 'kay. G' point.” He doesn't have it in him to say anything else for a while, just lets his Nat work him over, reduce him to a puddle of jell-o on the floor. She's efficient and ruthless, and she doesn't stop until every hurt is reduced to a dull, pleasant ache and Clint is nearly asleep. Only then does she uncuff him, throw the cuffs out of sight, and flop down gracefully next to Clint's pulpy self.

“Mmm.”

“You're welcome.” She turns to her side and peers at him, completely at ease. Because Clint is a snuggly bastard after sex, and massages are close enough in amounts of awesome, he rolls over as well and squirms into her personal space. Huffing a laugh, she pulls him close and they lie together, Clint dozing, Natasha just... relaxing. Letting her guard down.

There aren't many places she does, Clint knows, and he's glad this place is one of them.

They hear the Captain approaching before he speaks up. “That looks very cozy.”

“You're welcome to join, Cap,” Clint says into Natasha's hair.

Steve chuckles. “Thank you, I 'preciate it, but nah. I need to... I should go find Thor.”

“Yeah, about him,” Clint says and starts turning around to face him. “What's up with-”

Natasha pokes him sharply in the ribs.

“-the weather these days?” Clint says instead and hopes Steve doesn't notice his wince. At least he didn't yelp or anything – Natasha's nails can feel like daggers when she wants them to. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming the guy or anything, but we've had a _lot_ of rain, y'know?”

A sigh from above them. “Yes, I know. That's... one of the things I will talk to him about.” Steve sounds... forlorn? Huh. “I'll see you guys later.”

“See ya, Cap,” Natasha says and doesn't move. Steve's shuffling steps retreat and disappear into the distance.

“What was that about?” Clint says and moves so he can see his best friend's face.

Natasha looks down at him. One corner of her mouth twists upwards. “Don't tell me you haven't seen those two around each other, Clint.”

“Well, I – well, yeah,” Clint says. “But... really?” He thinks of Steve and Thor's careful glances at each other these last weeks, standing close enough to touch but not touching, Thor's seeming sadder than usual and Steve's being quiet... “Then why are they miserable?”

Natasha shrugs. “Could be like you and Stark, in the beginning. Trouble in Paradise.” She quirks a smile, before she grows serious again. “Or it could be their individual guilt-tripping that keeps the two of them apart.”

“Guilt-trip?” Clint says and rolls over onto his back, stares up at the bright-white ceiling. Like a hospital ceiling, he doesn't say.

Natasha leans her chin on his chest. “Don't tell me you don't feel it too, Barton. You saw the test he made for you. _Do you have heart?_ ” The last sentence is spoken in Russian, but it makes goosebumps break out all over his skin anyway.

“Yeah,” Clint says, his voice scratchier than it was just a minute ago.

Natasha nods and doesn't move away, their sides mostly touching. “It's the same with the rest of the team,” she says, and carefully does not add herself to the equation even though Clint knows she feels the same way. “Bruce can show Tony his pretty, new toys – and he wasn't there for the most part – and you can screw Tony through the mattress. Steve and Thor don't have that.”

“We haven't,” Clint says and doesn't finish the sentence. Just stares at the ceiling.

Natasha sighs and ruffles his hair again. “I think Steve and Thor feel very helpless right now,” she says. “And they're not used to that. At least, to a certain extent,” she adds, and Clint remembers a picture of Steve before the serum, small and achingly thin and hollow-chested with a bright smile on his gaunt face; remembers waiting for Coulson's signal and never getting it, watching Thor fight his way through a dozen SHIELD agents before collapsing by Mjølnir's side after she'd failed him.

“Yeah,” he says. Doesn't tell Natasha that he feels just as helpless most days, just as useless in helping Tony. Neither of them needs that.

“Another go?” she says after a long, comfortable silence.

Clint shifts his shoulders, feels how loose they feel. “Yeah, okay. Let's go.” They're both on their feet and ready in seconds.

~*~

He hears an old jazz tune croon softly from the living room's world-class entertainment system, and crawls in that direction. The ventilation system in Tony's tower is as familiar to Clint as the Helicarrier's, by now. Clint vaguely recognizes the piano player as Duke Ellington, though he doesn't know the name of the song.

“And the other on... exactly,” Clint hears Steve's voice, soft and relaxed, when he crawls closer. And okay, so maybe he should turn around and climb back to his and Tony's room. But Clint is _curious_ , okay? And Steve's been in a terrible mood lately; Clint wants to see what's making him sound all mellow and happy.

He slides up to the vent lid that leads into the living room, and peers out of it. It gives him a great vantage point of the room, of the dim light, the night sky outside, and the two large figures that stand in the middle.

“One, two, three, four,” Steve counts, over and over, smiling. “Follow my feet.”

Thor stands flush against him, his brows furrowed in concentration as he looks down at the floor. He's grasping the side of Steve's shoulder with one massive hand, the other splayed across the small of Steve's back. They're swaying to the soft jazz tune, Clint realizes when Thor starts to get a hold of it.

“I preferred the other arrangement,” Thor mutters, but his eyes crinkle fondly when Steve chuckles.

“You can't always lead, Thor.” Steve's hands are on Thor's shoulders and the Captain's a big guy, it's pretty difficult to dwarf him, but Steve looks... deceptively small in Thor's grasp. Thor looks so wild in comparison, with those huge, bulging muscles and that untamed hair compared to Steve's carefully combed locks.

“This is soothing,” Thor says after a while, the two of them mostly swaying now, not really bothering with the footwork anymore. “I particularly appreciate the... saxophone, you call it?”

Steve nods, smiles. “In a Mellotone; Duke Ellington. I first heard of him through Howard, he loved the guy.”

Thor must recognize that Steve's traveling back in time again in his head, because he doesn't say anything. Instead he presses the two of them closer and lets his head fall forward onto Steve's shoulder. Steve does the same, tucks his face into the crook of Thor's shoulder, and they stay like that and sway to the low jazzy tune, moving in the same, lazy circle in the middle of the room.

After a little while, Thor moves his hands; slides them around Steve's arms to settle on his back, into an embrace. Steve just sighs and slumps a little against him, looking grateful for the opportunity to... Clint doesn't know. Maybe be the little spoon, for once.

Thor turns his head and kisses Steve's temple. Steve looks up at him, his eyes flicker – and then they're leaning in and kissing, so carefully.

Clint turns around without a sound and crawls back to his bedroom. Tony's going to wake up soon, if Clint's not there – and Clint suddenly finds himself in a cuddly mood.

~*~


	11. Milestones

“Don't – don't, get off, get _off_ -” Tony snarls in his sleep, face pinched in scared anger even though he's still under, and Clint shakes off his own tiredness as he sits up in their bed.

“Tony. Tony, wake up.” This is not new. There hasn't been a drug-free night without nightmares so far, though Tony reacts differently to different kinds. Kicks and shouts; quiet sobs; stock-still and trying to breathe as silently as possible, as if trying to hide. Clint doesn't always realize how it's best to deal with any of these options, because they seem to change without warning, and this time, he opts for a hand on Tony's shoulder. It's the wrong move.

Tony grabs Clint's wrist and upper arm and yanks as hard as he can, still half asleep. Instead of yanking or even fighting back, as Clint's instincts yell at him to do, Clint goes with it – lets himself get pulled over Tony and out of the bed. He tucks himself in so he won't land wrong, and his shoulders take the brunt of it. He lands in an ungraceful heap next to the bed and Tony scrambles upright and awake, breathing like he's run a marathon.

“The fuck did you do that for?!” Tony shouts.

“Do what?” Clint says and winces; his shoulders are gonna be pretty sore tomorrow. He also feels a little ridiculous, still sitting on the floor, but Tony doesn't laugh. He fumes.

“You _know_ you're not supposed to touch it!” Tony snarls, and Clint wonders if the guy has a new issue with shoulder touching that Clint has somehow missed during the last two months. “You _never fucking touch_ the reactor without my permission! Fuck, Clint! I really thought you were better than that.” Tony drags a shaking hand through his sweaty hair. He looks furious and betrayed and _fuck that_.

“Well, I'm real sorry on my dream-self's behalf, Stark,” Clint mutters and gets to his feet, checks himself for any other injuries even though he knows he hasn't gotten any.

“It wasn't a _dream_ ,” Tony spits. “I'd know the difference.”

“You know, I'd believe you,” Clint says, “except you clearly don't.” He's hurt, okay? Fuck everyone who'll make fun of him for his delicate feelings or whatever, but Tony should fucking trust Clint's word by now and it's clear that nope, neither Tony nor his subconscious does. 

“Fuck you, Clint, stop lying!” Tony shouts and pulls his sheets higher, shields his little-blue night light from Clint's view, which is just fucking exhausting because Tony _just_ stopped sleeping without a t-shirt on and Clint hates setbacks.

Clint knows the correct answer to this. Really, he does. It goes something like 'Babe, listen to me; I swear I'm not lying and I swear I'd never touch your reactor without your permission – you know me better than to believe that'. That's what he should say.

What he does say is “Fuck you, Stark,” and then he leaves the room to find a vent to sleep in. “JARVIS?”

“Sir?” the AI sounds tired, which Clint guesses has more to do with his creator's current headspace than the fact that it's four in the morning.

“If Tony asks where I am, don't tell him. Please.” He takes the elevator up to his own quarters first and changes into sweats and a thick sweater, before he heads out of the window and scales the south-side wall towards the roof. The biting wind makes it easier to think, which isn't actually what Clint wants right now, so he pushes away all his angry thoughts and lets his breathing pattern take up most of his brain space.

“Very well, Agent Barton.”

Great, he's back to 'Agent Barton' now. “Thanks.” He finds the topmost vent and climbs into it, before he realizes the flaw in his old order. “And if anyone else asks – SHIELD, Avengers, Pepper – don't tell them either.”

This time there's a part-second of hesitance on the AI's part. “Very well, Agent Barton.”

“Thanks, Jarv.”

He curls up between floor thirty-seven and thirty-eight and sleeps restlessly until morning.

~*~

It's still dark when he wakes, and Clint wonders why until he remembers where he is. The shaft is quiet around him, the only light streams in from a vent far ahead, and Clint's back aches from the position he has rested in.

“JARVIS, what's the time?”

“Four thirty in the afternoon, Agent Barton,” JARVIS says. “Might I suggest you contact Sir or another Avenger? They are quite worried.” Which is about as close to an admonishment that JARVIS gets, so Clint immediately feels guilty.

Guilt or no, though, he still feels raw all over. He's not quite ready to crawl out of his hiding place yet. “Can you set up a comm between me and Tony?” he asks instead.

“Certainly, Agent.” There's a muted 'click'.

“Clint?” Tony's voice is reproachful, and scratchy the way it gets when he's gone without a good night's sleep. Clint can almost see him, blinking at the StarkTablet he's probably talking into, eyes red-rimmed and morning stubble covering his chin.

“ 'm here.”

“I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't – I trust you, okay?” Tony's voice hitches. “I know it's just my own brain fucking me up. You wouldn't – wouldn't touch. Not without permission.”

“No, I fucking would not,” Clint says, and he sounds as exhausted as he feels. “Look, Tony – I get that you reacted like you did, don't think I don't get it. At least you didn't punch me again.” He uncurls a little, stares into the darkness of the vent. He's never been afraid of the dark – it used to hide him, when he was a kid. Helped him hide from his father, from Trick-Shot, from Barney. He's made peace with the dark a long time ago, and now it calms him. Helps him collect his thoughts.

“I just –” Clint sighs. “I don't know if I'm helping you like this, Tony. Your nightmares, your –” he sighs.

There's a brief pause. “What're you saying?” Tony says.

Clint rolls over onto his back and stretches, his joints popping. “Nothing. I'm saying nothing. Just – if you want me to fuck off for a while, I'd get it.” He clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly, matches the movements to his heartbeat.

“Do _you_ want to?” Tony asks, carefully neutral.

“Hell, I don't know.” Clint stares at the cold metal right above him.

“Okay, look,” Tony says, and though his voice is meeker than Clint likes, there's still an edge of resolve in it. “Can we at least take this face to face, if we're gonna break up? Please. I hate – this.”

Clint's heart clenches. “Sure,” he says and starts to crawl. He stays in the vents until he gets to their shared living room, and when he drops down from the ceiling, Tony comes out from the kitchen.

“I don't particularly want to,” Clint says.

Tony stops and frowns. He's wearing one of his wife-beaters with oil stains that'll never go away, thin enough that his heart still glows faintly beneath it. “Want to what?”

“Break up.” Clint shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats, and tries hard not to look like he's slouching defensively. “I don't... want to.” Because this is hard, it's so fucking _hard_ to be around this Tony who is only a shadow of himself, but every nightmare Clint has reminds him of the _really_ hard part – the part where he had to watch Tony lose his heart and be on his own.

“Yeah?” Tony brightens a little, before his face falls again. “Because I mean, you're pretty fucking entitled to. God knows I was damaged goods _before_ Jig- that happened, and now-”

“Stop it,” Clint snaps, and Tony flinches. “You are _not_ damaged. You are _not_ broken.” He strides over, Tony visibly making himself not retreat, and takes Tony's hands in his own. “You don't need to be fixed,” Clint spits, that song haunting him again.

Tony's cheeks are pink and his eyes look feverish. He looks down at their hands and nods, lets out a long breath. “It's nice of you to think so,” he says quietly.

Clint leans in – slowly, so Tony sees it coming – and kisses him. Tony kisses back, though more hesitant than he used to be. “You're no more broken than I am,” he whispers. “Or any of the other Avengers are. Okay?”

“What do you call all this, then?” Tony bites out, tapping his fingers against his temple before gesturing at his own body.

“Tony Stark,” Clint says. “Iron Man. Douchebag extraordinaire. Baby. Annoying little shit. Sweetheart. Stubborn prick. Probable love of my life.” He leans his forehead against Tony's. “Take your goddamn pick.”

Tony makes a sound not unlike a sob. “You have terrible taste, Lara Croft.” His hands settle on Clint's hips.

Clint smiles against Tony's lips. “Yeah, I know.”

~*~

He's got Steve and Thor with him, because Tony was adamant on that particular point. On the other hand, his phone hasn't rung and JARVIS is quiet. Clint knows the AI follows them through their phones, and that's fine.

He checks his watch when they're getting back into the Tower; one minute, twenty-eight seconds before T-time. They're good. “JARVIS?”

“I have informed Sir that you are within Tower perimeter, Master Clint.”

Steve grins and claps Clint on the back. He doesn't say anything, because he's Steve and he rarely rubs things in, but he gets how big this is. How big it is for _Tony_.

Clint doesn't skip, but that's only because his arms are full. “I'm fine, it's fine, we're all fine, and it's a beeeaaaauuutiful morning!”

“Shut up,” Tony says, and walks over to them from the couch he's undoubtedly been curled up in for the last half hour. His eyes belies his tone, though; manic, wide, searching Clint's face for a sign that he's lying, that something is wrong.

Clint gives the coffee to Steve without looking; Steve is right there to catch, Thor by his side. Clint slides his hands around Tony's waist, guides him close enough that Tony can feel his heart beat through their shirt, how calm it is. “We're fine,” he murmurs into Tony's neck, who nods jerkily. “Your coffee's going cold – it's your favorite. Gang says hi. He's glad you're doing better.”

“Not that much better, evidently,” Tony huffs and draws back. He lowers his eyes and tries to grin at Steve and Thor, who don't say anything – just smile back. Steve hands him his coffee.

“You were right, Tony,” Steve says. “The coffee there was wonderful. Reminded me of this place me and – Bucky would go to sometimes, before he shipped out. The owner, she'd give me a free coffee sometimes because she'd known my mom. Mrs. Gibbs.” Steve's smile slips a little, like it does whenever he remembers that he died sixty years ago. “I'd love to go there with you some day,” he finishes, a little haltingly.

Tony looks... grateful for that little anecdote. He stares at Cap, eyes flicking over to Thor, who's standing close to Steve (like he usually is, these days), palm open against Steve's back – not touching, but unconsciously stating that he wants to. Understanding clears in Tony's eyes. “Sure thing, Cap,” he says. “I'd like that. I'll bring my boytoy and L'oreal can join too. Double date.”

“I can't believe you just called me your boytoy,” Clint mutters.

“Thor?” Steve swivels around to blink at Thor. Two spots of bright red appear on his cheeks. Thor just beams; Clint isn't sure what Asgard's stance on homosexuality is, but it's clear that their resident demi-god doesn't feel the need to hide his huge crush on Steve.

“I would be delighted to, Anthony!” Thor says.

“We're not,” Steve flounders, “I mean-”

Tony pets him on his pretty, blond head in a really patronizing manner. It actually reminds Clint of the Tony they met when they first moved into the Tower, back when he still thought he had to _prove_ himself to the team; still thought he had to be the great Tony Stark. It startles a laugh out of Clint, and an equally startled (by the looks of it) indignant noise from Steve himself. Thor just looks quietly amused.

“We're _not_ ,” Steve says again, and sounds almost petulant now. It's adorable.

“Sure thing, Cap,” Tony says and takes a sip from his coffee cup. “Whatever you say.”

Steve's cheeks are flaming by now, and he looks at Thor – presumably for back-up. Thor kisses him instead. “ _Thor_!”

Thor shrugs. “Our secret is no secret anymore; I see no reason to pretend I am not in love with you. Our friends and shield-brothers will not condemn us like some men from your time, Steven.” He kisses Steve again, whose face is beet red.

“Plus, it'd be hypocritical as shit of us,” Clint points out, “seeing as I've been officially screwing Tony for, like, half a year now.”

“My hero,” Tony says and rolls his eyes, but his voice is warm. He takes another sip of his coffee, and his hands shake. Clint slips a hand around his waist, feels how the tremors lessen slightly.

“I just – this is... new,” Steve says in a tight voice, but he hasn't moved out of Thor's personal space. “I- we didn't want to... I don't know.” He finally smiles, a sheepish, weak little thing, and drags his hand through his floppy hair. It's longer now, Clint realizes dimly.

“You're fucking adorable,” Clint says, just to make Steve blush again. It works. “Like two puppies dating each other.”

“Yes!” Tony says and points at them. “That's exactly it! Puppies. You... are puppies.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Both,” Clint says.

Thor laughs.

“It's a statement,” Tony says. “Totally separate thing.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Clint is very proud.

~*~

“You did good,” Clint tells his boyfriend later, when they're curled up in bed. They're giving the sleeping-in-the-same-bed thing another try, because as much as Tony sometimes lashes out, the proximity generally helps both of them with their night terrors.

The pill bottles are on the night stand, almost empty. It's twelve more days until the three-month mark.

“Mm?” Tony opens one eye and noses at his collarbone.

“You drank coffee, didn't panic – J told me you were pretty calm while I was gone – and you made Cap squirm. All in all, good day, yeah?”

Tony sighs, splays his fingers over Clint's chest, traces a finger across his nipple. It's an absent movement, but Clint still twitches. His nipples are sensitive. “Yeah, I guess.”

Clint doesn't ask, but he nudges Tony's hair with his nose.

“I'm fucking exhausted,” Tony says and leans up on one elbow. “Like, I feel like crap. I've been up, what, twelve hours today? The most I did was goof around a little, push Cap's buttons, and wait for you to bring me fucking coffee. And I'm exhausted.”

“Well, yeah,” Clint says.

“ 'Well, yeah'?”

“Tony, you do know you're still recuperating, yeah?” Clint leans up too, so they're eye to eye. “You're doing awesomely, you're getting better, but there's a slope and you're not at the top yet – physically or mentally. You _know_ that.”

“Doesn't mean I don't hate it,” Tony mutters. When Clint smiles, he narrows his eyes. “What the hell are you looking so gleeful about?”

“You're pissy,” Clint says.

“And I'll take 'Obvious' for 500, Alex,” Tony snaps. Clint kisses him until he lies back down on the bed. “What – Clint?”

“Tony, a month ago – two weeks ago, hell a _week_ ago I don't think you could've been pissy if you'd tried. Or gleeful. Or just – joking around, or all these smallish feelings you're being now, being _you_ , essentially. Being a dick.”

“Fuck off,” Tony says, but he's chuckling so Clint just kisses him again. He deepens it, though he doesn't lower himself over Tony; they both know that's not going to work out well. He lies on his side, next to Tony, and skims his fingers down Tony's arm while they trade slow, lazy kisses. He knows his hard-on brushes Tony's leg, but doesn't do anything about it. They haven't done much about this at all since That Day.

Clint leans back before he can poke Tony with his dick too much, but Tony shoots out a hand and grabs him by the shoulder. “Not that tired,” he says, halting. “Let's – try this for a bit longer.”

“Tony,” Clint warns, though he leans closer. “Don't feel like you need to prove anything.”

“I'm not,” Tony says. “I'm horny.”

Clint huffs. “That's not a-”

“No, I'm serious,” Tony says and bites his lower lip gently. “I'm- actually horny. That hasn't happened in a while; I wanna take advantage of it.”

Clint hesitates, but Tony looks serious. Strangely serious for sex, but there you go. “Tell me to back off,” he says, asks; _demands_ , actually, and Tony nods.

They shift positions; Tony on top, to lessen the risk of a flashback. Clint stays clear of his arc reactor and keeps his hands above Tony's waist for now. They don't discuss it, just – make it happen. They're getting good at maneuvering through the mine field that is each other's brains. Clint wonders if this is always what happens when you've been in a relationship for a while.

“I'm good, c'mon,” Tony says after a few minutes and grinds down against Clint. Clint's throat is getting full of tiny, small bite marks that'll be gone by the morning and his concentration is shot, but he obliges; slips his hands down and into Tony's boxer-shorts, cups his ass.

Tony immediately loses all the color in his face. Clint gets his hands up and out and _away_ , stops all movement. “Hey, Tony. Tony. It's okay, you're in the Tower, with me.”

Tony swallows and closes his eyes. The grip he has on Clint's shoulders is hard enough that he'll have bruises; Clint doesn't mind. He hopes it grounds Tony in the present.

“Tony?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, voice rough and word clipped. “Yeah, I'm – just give me a minute.”

“Of course,” Clint murmurs. There's something really bizarre about this whole scenario, how Tony still straddles him with his underwear mostly off. The air in the bedroom is cool on both their bodies now, and Tony frowns like he's solving a near-impossible mathematical equation. His breathing is steady and it's not by accident; he takes several slow, full breaths, each of them five-in, four-out.

Clint just waits.

Tony opens his eyes, gives him an apologetic smile. “So that just killed the mood,” he says. He sounds a little strangled, but his eyes are clear and staring right at Clint. He eases up his grip and thumbs at the marks they've left behind. “I'm sorry.”

“Touching alright?” Clint says, and when Tony nods, he draws his boyfriend down and into a hug. “That was awesome, Tony.”

“You're either a shit liar, or you don't find me attractive anymore. If it's the latter I'm officially insulted.”

Clint snorts, before he brushes some non-existent strands of hair away from Tony's face. “We just hit a trigger.”

“You don't need to spell it out,” Tony says, snippy.

“No, that's not what I'm – Tony, you triggered right now and you just – took a breather.” Clint curls his hand around Tony's neck, brings their foreheads together. “That's it. You didn't space out – hey, you didn't even punch me this time.” He tries to joke about it, but all that does is make Tony look more guilty, which, oops. “Hey. Don't be like that. It's a good thing. A great thing, even.”

“Is it bad that I just want to get off with you?” Tony says. His lips ghost over Clint's. “I don't – care about good things and partial progress right now, I just wanna have sex with you and not have it be a huge milestone.” He sighs, buries his face against Clint's neck.

Clint smiles when he feels how Tony rests his weight on him; how they're touching from their legs all the way to their faces. For a moment Clint doesn't even care what Tony feels about this; it's grounding _him_ , in the knowledge that Tony's here and whole and not broken. “We'll get there. Get off, as it were. Just give it-”

“Time, yeah.” Tony pushes off him, rolls off the bed and pads into the adjoining bathroom. “Fucking time.”

“Tony?” Clint sits up, but doesn't follow. He hates being crowded and he hates the thought of crowding Tony. The door is open.

“What happens at the next Apocalypse, Clint?” He's not quite yelling, but his voice is pretty loud. Clint can barely see his reflection from where he sits, can see how Tony glares at his own mirror image.

“Apocalypse? What are you talking about?”

“There's been a lull after J- after J-” Tony takes a sharp breath. “After Agent got the guy who got me. You know what comes after a lull, what _always_ comes after a lull.”

“The big dogs start barking again,” Clint says quietly. “Trying to see who's the bigger boss.”

“Yeah. What happens the next time they all start barking, Clint? The next time the world needs Iron Man? I just tell them I need more _time_?!”

Clint finally gets up and joins him in the bathroom. Tony glares at the mirror like it's done him personal injustice. “When that time comes, you'll do what you need to do – and probably some way beyond that, too. You always were an over-achiever.”

“Clint!” Tony snaps.

“Look, what do you want me to say, Tony? That you'll fail? 'Cause I don't think you will.” Clint slouches against the wall and stares while Tony curls over the sink, breathing hard. “I think you'll head out with us even if you probably shouldn't. I think you'll fight the bad guys while silently freaking out inside. I think you'll get JARVIS to talk you down from a panic attack; I think you'll do something stupid and heroic because that's the first thing that'll come to your mind, and I think you'll save the world with us.” He shrugs. “And then possibly have a panic attack after, when it's safe. When you can afford to.”

“What does that mean,” Tony says, voice flat. His shoulders are hunched and the fight seems to have gone out of him during Clint's little speech.

“It means that you're good at repressing shit, Tony. I watched – you know we saw the tapes.” Clint watches Tony go tense again and he hates to bring it up, but he actually has a good point coming here. “We – that was our job. Watch and not do... not do any saving, only be there after.”

“For the clean-up,” Tony says and sounds bitter.

“You never freaked out, Tony. You were scared out of your wits, yeah – and who the fuck wouldn't be – but even faced with a phobia, you were able to keep yourself under enough control to survive.” He takes a step forward, comes from the side so Tony can see him coming. “You didn't get panic attacks, never froze up, until you got here. Where you were safe.”

Tony scrubs at his eyes until they go red-rimmed. “Since when did you turn into my shrink?”

“Goes with the boyfriend duties. I get dental, too.”

The shadow of a smile appears on Tony's face.

Clint nudges him with a hand, waits for Tony to turn into an embrace. “Iron Man can save the world when it needs to be saved,” he murmurs. “Tony Stark can stay home in his living room, with his _incredibly_ attractive boyfriend, and freak out. Because he can afford to do that.”

“And have sex?” Tony asks, almost jokingly.

“Lots and lots of sex. Steamy, rough, kinky sex. Hopefully with said attractive boyfriend.”

“Oh, damn. And I was hoping to lure Happy into bed with me one of these days.”

Clint wrinkles his nose. “Really? All those names and you go with your driver?”

“Shut up, he has an excellent body. I used to work out with him, remember?”

“Slightly jealous, now.”

Tony chuckles and takes his hand. They migrate back to the bed; Clint turns off the bathroom light as they go. They curl up around each other, under the covers, and don't say goodnight. They rarely do.

“Thank you,” Tony whispers, when they're both on the verge of sleep.

Clint squeezes his hand.

~*~


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. <3

Tony's three-month test is negative. The doctor calls it 'acute hepatitis' and tries to tell them that this sort of thing happens around thirty percent of the time – that the body fixes itself with or without aid of medication – but Clint and Tony barely listen.

Clint goes to Gang's coffee shop and only has Rhodey with him this time. That night, he uses Tony's toothbrush just to prove a point, and Tony gives him a handjob to prove a point of his own.

When, three weeks later, the majority of Manhattan gets attacked by an army of Doombots, the Avengers assemble.

Just like usual.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery triggers:
> 
> \- Physical torture of various kinds. Tony, over the course of his tasks, deals with water-torture; self-inflicted wounds (he stabs himself in the throat so as to not drown, and later cuts a hole in the back of his head to remove a foreign object); multiple stab wounds by small metal barbs; multiple puncture wounds from contaminated needles; and his arc reactor is forcibly removed from his chest, causing him to go into cardiac arrest. He dies, technically, though only for a very short time.
> 
> -Multiple character deaths: These all refer to smaller characters, original characters that have been placed in the test area with Tony. He doesn't kill any of them; they all die because of one of Jigsaw's tests, though their deaths are graphically described.
> 
> \- Trauma: Much of the story deals with the physical and emotional aftermath of Tony's experience, and as such, there are graphic descriptions of panic attacks, periods of dissociation, symptoms of PTSD. We also view this from Clint's perspective, so the story also focuses on Clint's own trauma and his aftermath.
> 
> \- Serious illness: As a consequence of being (forcibly) injected by contaminated needles, Tony contracts Acute Hepatitis C, a serious and infectious illness. Though it is dealt with and the reactions are showed, the illness is resolved through medications and time, and it is not in the forefront of the story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Play A Game Illustrations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682786) by [MusicalLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna)




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